We live,
We suffer long enough
To die,
Ask a man , old,
Older than those streets,
Who moulds memories in the footpath
Of misery,
1 or a million die in his existence
Still he lives,
He lives In those ashes n graves
And questions,
Is he a boon or so unloved to be betrayed by death,
His bones tremble n crack,
Lifting weight of dead
Dead that were ones alive
To make him stop question
That why he lives,
Now as he narrows down
His vision to embrace,
He personifies
His desperation to die,
Be it the scarf or the pen,
Or Rotting in the fen,
Or bathing in the acid,
Or not so happy ig placid,
Be it the snakes or the worms,
Or leaches in their throngs,
Devouring his curse,
As he crumble down his purse,
He whisper to his lady,
Who lives in her arcady,
They will cross their paths aboon,
As he still thinks,
He will get his death so soon.