At the stroke of one
He saw the men emerge
And gather in the fresh air
Coughing, squinting and gasping
He kept time as they washed
The black from their hands and face
And sat in the clean dirt
To eat their meals
Their words and laughter reached him
Some spat too, others cursed
And then they all looked at him
And he at the time
He saw the hand tick over
But the whistle in his mouth
Remained bereft of air
Longer than usual
While all the appropriate words
Are being said and shared
Accompanied by laughs, hugs and tears
I shall stand in a corner and disappoint
And then compensate later
Through a different medium
That allows much
To remain with me
This young couple in a café
Now speaking, now fighting, now silent
About things that don’t matter
Disrupt the morning routine
Of the old man who sits nearby
And lets his coffee go cold
A cramped office space
Papers stacked unevenly
And high
The faces
Of engrossed men
Hidden behind
A man
Not hidden
Hiding
Observes all but them
Through the window
By his right
Myths and stories seem
The only means that explain yet enable
This madness
This resolute conformity to it
If only the writers knew
The havoc their works would wreck
Would they have shunned their craft?
Or pledged to never stray with words?
Vain strivings
Reason to wonder to myth
Is a journey of elaborate embellishments
And would affect humble beginnings alike
Nobody wants to die for reason
It is not a glorious death
A True Sentence 