A few dried leaves
He makes a fire.
*The fire in him
All his dreams
Cinders now!*
Twigs of wood
A small spark
Is all he need.
*For breathes the belly
He must feed!*
The past is dim
Nay the past is blank
All left is now.
*When the fire burns out
Ashes will fly!*
He makes daily
A meal measly
With deadwood.
*When is next
He doesn’t brood!*
A roadside meek
Lives on pick
Yet don’t die.
*When the fire burns out
Ashes will fly!*
None bothers his fate
High up they wait
For him to die.
*When his fire burns out
Vultures will fly!*
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 2:37 AM UTC
A few dried leaves
He makes a fire.
*The fire in him
All his dreams
Cinders now!*
Twigs of wood
A small spark
Is all he need.
*For breathes the belly
He must feed!*
The past is dim
Nay the past is blank
All left is now.
*When the fire burns out
Ashes will fly!*
He makes daily
A meal measly
With deadwood.
*When is next
He doesn’t brood!*
A roadside meek
Lives on pick
Yet don’t die.
*When the fire burns out
Ashes will fly!*
None bothers his fate
High up they wait
For him to die.
*When his fire burns out
Vultures will fly!*
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