The Tale of a Recluse

By Gurpoorav Singh

With a cold gaze no winters can match,

Traversing along the scarlet night,

A delirious little man with a judgement oh-so clouded,

Contemplates what's wrong and what's right.

Petrified of the inevitable, he heaves morosely,

The grey heavens deluging his barren, desolate eyes,

With the dying howls of wishful thinking,

Is seeking an oasis stumbling across the desert of lies.

The childlike effervescence carried away with a breeze melancholic,

A steam locomotive which eternally lost its coal,

The void of despair, a benign speck,

With each pulse thrives into a malignant hole.

Hobbling across this plain of rubble and rocks,

The inner cub implores for a trip down memory lane,

Where the orchids bloom in the moonlit meadows,

And pervasive melodies of the canaries seeping through the window pane.

Come what may for the dandelion that swayed,

Danced with the wind and dazzling to the sight,

But as its tryst with time culminated into the inevitable,

Sits perished in the ground at the edge of light.

By Gurpoorav Singh