A mad man, a worthless shabby man.
This is how people recognize him,
Jeering, throwing stones at him.
Hating on him
As he himself wished that sickness upon him.
Seemingly oblivious to profanities, mockery and brutality,
He personifies damnation…He’s a walking abomination.
[Wearing warm clothes when sun is scorching ball of fire.
Strolling without shoes,tatters-clad,looking like his own ghost.
Talking to himself or his demons or angels he has lost,
He looks like a story book whose words are no more legible.]
For the world he’s a waste, a burden or nothingness;
That should’ve been claimed by the vortex of death.
Then, I saw
There’s more to that nothingness.
The heart drumming inside that lost form isn’t lost.
One day I find him holding a bunch of flowers,
A solemn expression etched on his face.
Walking determinedly to a cemetery, a cemetery?
He marches quickly, steps in & halts before a neatly established grave.
Touches the stone adoringly, mumbles something & puts down the flowers.
Then he sits there & starts talking to that grave.
Feeling my presence, My eyes on him,
He slowly turns his neck & stares at me.
After a moment or eternity he croaks sullenly…
in utterly disarming doomed voice.
“My mother, my mothers lives here…”
A tear kisses his cheek & drowns me in its depth.