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 ****** 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.