Yesterday, he fell into a vat of self
pity, and with intent, stirred up the past...
drank of its bitter wine...
a pathetic, defeated man.
O, morning sun, be thou his true witness...
The hour of reckoning is knocking at
his door...He asks if life‘s rhyme is but a ruse,
and he but a pale shadow?
Lo! Stench of fame and depression walk hand
in hand... the face of his character has
turned his song into a sickening
shade of life gone wrong.
He’s never reflected on the mirror
that resides inside of him... never tried
out the best part of love to see if it fits,
or how well it fits him.
Some days are like fading pages, tattered
torn. He often wonders for what purpose
was he born, and, if it’s possible for him
to find life's meaning?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I'm glad you couldn't sleep; otherwise, you may never have written this wonderful poem. I so enjoyed it.