There will be a single spark of light.
But not from the stars. Because even them,
they have shied away and have forgotten.
Here, only from my birthday candle
casting shadows waltzing the wall
and the chilly wind whistling a tune,
sending wisps of wishes, for tonight.
While the rest of the world snoozes
in its deafening silence. Getting used
with the normalcy of tragedies.
And in their lukewarm sympathies.
In the quiet corner of the city, littered
and battered of the rain-drenched
images of chaos and shattered hopes,
on the table a bowl of rice
and a can of sardine. In a color
charcoaled space, I breath as a man
determined to celebrate my existence
among the ruins with this twist of fate.
I shifted my gaze from the table
to the broken windows and watch
the passing of the storm clouds
in the evening sky. I am happy
but no sound of laughter. Hearing
the incessant drop of water
from a leaking roof. Contented
among the shadows. Decided
to bury the hatchet of what is past.
Gathering what’s left after the storm.
As I dream of patching the tattered
and pock-marked walls, then hide
the traces of mud in fresh white paint.
Believing nature has a way to let people
start anew. De-cluttering my life of things
that entangle men of never-ending want.
Until now, when I had less.
Solitude Amidst the Maddening Crowd
