Tasting the Defeat

*****Tasting the defeat**** Here he is, O'lord; Lying in an old, sullen and reeking room, twisted within chains of anger and hatred; Glowing with the reminiscence of past, waiting for the death, once he is defeated; A cacophony is being echoed, and his gaze is loosing fight with the haze, heaved with burdens of expectations, once he used to lift; he is nothing now but a smoke of his own, withering away as the currents of air shift; Between the soul and the sane, he tries to suppress the rift; Devoid of a decent, genuine motive, he fails to wear his old persona, and it doesn't matter how hard he tries; He speaks, shouts, cries, murmurs and sobs, holds himself with crossed arm and swollen eyes; burning in his pain and agony, he, slowly, exhales the mist in his mind, Tired with the deafening shouts, He gets terrified with the mere whisper of wind; he lifts up his eyes and turns, to look at me in the mirror, into a painful smile, his lips are twisted; he pleads before me to save myself, before he turns into a corpse and I get defeated.