Rich Poor Man

By Sanjay G. Singh

A decade back, he ran away

to prove a point to his dead land.

Richer he was than many;

Blessed with possessions, wealth and money.

That was all of his father's,

said he to himself

and moved away to a farther land of distance.

He then built an army of soldiers,

knights, cristons and of warriors.

He now worried and feared of the enemies;

Stuck he was in dealing,

and looking for its remedies.

Now;

The Wealth kissed his feet,

Possessions sat next to his seat.

That was not it,

said he to them and made a transit.

Moved he to a newer place and kept his shine,

took a few bullets on his spine

and kept walking straight in the line.

After some more years;

when it all seemed enough,

he went back to the place of the dead land,

to show his people

how it was done with a troop of music band.

Reached he to the house he grew

to cough to the webs and dust that flew.

An elderly of sixty

as he remembered was forty the last time,

came near him and said;

Here are the keys of your home Big boy,

Your father breathed his last

five years back with your toy in his hands.

The one who won the world was lost.

His legs trembled,

tongue jumbled,

and in shame,

he took his keys and jumped into the

Sorrow of flames.

He was now the richest poor man of the town,

king he was to many,

but to him, he was a clown

who didn't even come back after his twenties.

By Sanjay G. Singh