In the Life
the day was harsh in reminding of
eternal imprisonment
(as the gates closed to my cage) …
to tortured senses &
a burning heart -
how i could end for Lack of Luck.
for once
was done with modest keep (
in a cell-held putridness
were but assets of a pathetic man:
in one corner, a dirty, moldy rag
where I slept.
scattered about, bits of papers, a pen
for passing the time.
in the middle, a rusty water can
for the rainy weathers
&
running along the walls -
a glorified tap when the rains deserted me -
a pipe in corruption)
the damn life if only I yet deserved!
having spent all: the rough twenty years
as should ever be allowed of such a man.
like i wasn’t penitent enough!
the cry equally ignored as the hunger in my eyes.
and in such moments after some others left - barely worthy,
was obvious that i was fated by my very own Lack of Luck,
my great crime without appeal.
today i tried to relax
but pessimism invaded every aspect of my being
&
i died slowly within,
seeking whatever pride was left in that cell - my hell on earth,
as a guard fed me stories from the outside,
vowing to forever keep in here my words.
how i was condemned
for Lack of Luck.
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