Destitute

The world stands where the rivers end
End in the lofts of pain
No one is around to sing to sound
No one is around to set glee
A little child left at home
A little boy left at field
A little man left at work
A little oldie left at home
Few little words don't work too much
Little talks don't sprout
And that is how the world has been  -
Silently suffering a bout
Not many care beyond a reasoning shame
Not many even pass a smile
Not many lend their tears to you
For not many are you a prize.

It is indeed a world so small
As small as a petty grain
Yet in every inch of it, most search but gain.
Not withstanding even to rest,
Even to rest and wail.

And again, as a poet passes
Passes through the plains
In him he finds all sorrows
In him lie all lanes.
Yet he seeks like all others do
A sombre piece of life
Living along in two dreary lives, he feels on him a knife.

All of us do have that feel
The feel of mellow solitude
Yet what we leave of life
Is to become destitute...

Picture taken from Stock Photos