The lights were artificial
the room was yet alive
it was cold, though the window was closed
the wind blowing outside mercilessly cried.
His memories lay garbled
as for misery, there was none
he had no company for a long time
and with despair he was done.
The familiarity of others had worn off
the extrovert had died along the way
his conscience seemed to fade and fade
till it was just a stream in his wake.
Running away from what he didn't know
laying waste, everything left was broke
it caught up to him, it was so slow
he found a friend in that haze of smoke.
Days started to pass by ever so fast
the window remained closed for good
the wind beat down at it every night
unhampered by it all, he stood.
Looking around in that pale light
the warmth had left him a long time ago
smiling at his own damned plight
his friendship with loneliness began to grow.
Deeper and deeper he went into it
till there was nothing, not even light
he had burned his cigarette, blown smoke in the air
he battled with life and had won that fight.