The Pocket's Hole

By Shreyas Raman

As sprouts of spring wilt to fall, ‘goo-goo gaa-gaa’ echoed the infant’s call,

Though little Jack was pea-sized small, his parents envisioned him beanstalk tall!

Seeking to nurture their blooming child, they presented a gift with a leafy smile,

His mother’s breath hovered and garbled, giving her child a rare sparkle,

A big bag full of glittering marbles, gently placed in his pocket’s parcel,

“Use this time to make your day, not long it will last, not long it will stay”

Allured and oblivious, Jack tangled in the toll, as the first marble plopped from his pocket’s hole.

Some years later little Jack was eleven, his life care-free as joyful as heaven,

To him time was but a feeble cage, unable to shackle his pre-teen age,

Mischief and deceit consumed his days, pranking and bickering in numerous ways,

It didn’t matter that some marbles dropped, the pocket was heavy, they still filled to the top,

Then champagne splurged on parties and fame, trading hard-work for shallow claims,

Many marbles missing behind illusive shows, on snubbing to pester empty foes. 

A fragile mirror fractured at manhood, surrendered to approval and feeling good,

Still more marbles dropped out of the hole, for Jack rose with no arbor, no fulfilling goal.

His 40’s were plagued by an infesting virus, he gilded thorns, it was not his nicest,

Yearning for pleasure he smoked and brewed, a garden now rotten by chronic abuse,

His mother mulched roots for a renewed life, warding pests but ignored she left with strife,

He willowed in his pit, withered and lifeless, and didn't recognize her efforts were priceless,

Alas on his deathbed, the final marble was sown, his pockets barren and frozen to stone,

Now all regret would go to waste, for there was no chance to rewind nor retrace,

If only he toiled with purpose steadfast, could he have rewound to change what was cast?

If only he heeded all words of wisdom, and used hours wisely he wouldn’t be their victim.

Finally he grasped that marbles were change -- reaping his past was impartial and ordained,

Through monsoons and droughts, seasons bright and dull, time always followed until it struck null. 

For this little Jack, envisioned beanstalk tall, had dwindled his marbles for fleeting galore.

By Shreyas Raman