A man of few words.

He sits awake through the night,
fighting an internalized pain,
clenching at his hair,
breaking through an eternity of loss.

an expressionless void,
a mute plea for utter numbness,
a betrayal of innocence,
an abandoned grave for a heart,
an isolated cemetery for a mind.

Dressed in contradiction,
neglect evident in his eyes,
perfect perceptions,
a solid stance,
he is a man of few words.

Stranded between lies,
scarred by an inhumane injustice,
diseased by hate,
a repulsion to the system.

When the clock strikes three,
he returns to the sidewalk,
a child burdened
by the fragrance of wilting flowers,
deprived and alone,
a victim to the system,
where paper holds more worth than flesh,
where death is a mere accident
that too at the hands of the elite,
where hands are tied with ropes,
ones that leave everlasting marks.

A withered child,
a vacant face,
with eyes rendered dry,
a lifeless conversation,
mourning its existence,
within the ashes of the night.


2 Replies to “A man of few words.”

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