The touchpad is faded.
The fingers that fly past with dexterity
Are wrinkled and crinkled,
Like dry animal bones.
It is with enthusiasm
That he chats with a million people
In a million places
Scattered around the world like torn feathers.
Instant Messaging he curls his lips to say.
The eyes are heavy.
They tell unending stories of sleep.
A little slumber is what sages say.
Sleep has assumed position of life partner.
Jobs lay around undone.
The interest is in cuddling to slumber
While time sprints by.
Goodbye time! You will come again!
Are statements resonating with his folly.
The weary extremities now gone sore.
Killers of pain are handed down.
They actually lift the spirit
And make the soul float up
To the coral-filled shores of the seventh heavens.
These are then the best friends
Who give the unrejectable feeling
Of unending satisfaction
And joy that is sought daily.
Weariness is still the bedmate,
And heartache, still the unpartable partner.
The cause of it,
The weariness in itself,
Is the compulsive need
For the dough,
Which in eventuality, will capture the soul
And murder the body to death.
« return.