He looked out of the window of his heart,
Wishing to find the answer to a certain question,
This could only be answered by someone dead!
"What is the purpose of life?" He screamed in agony.
To faces curved out of stone, he sought sympathy.
His ethics, his sentiments, his emotions, locked into a deep chamber.
In a dead zone of his own but not deliberate creation, he stood.
In his mind, there is still hope, but those dreams are clouded-
Clouded by fear; fear of awakening.
To fate he asks now, as people don't answer him.
Someone has to do the job, but fate is elusive!
His agony increases; and his tolerance? That fades away.
He is shorted, on the verge of insanity, with no guiding angel!
Alas he even doesn’t believe in angels.
Those fairy tales have left him in the infancy,
He knows that he will never be happy;
And he also knows that peace will never come to him.
He can't accept that, but what could he do?
Alone, nothing could be achieved, never!
He is lost- terribly lost.
Frustrated, he tries out whatever he likes,
Or at least he wishes he could do just that.
Cause anarchy is sometime salvation for lost people like him.
Especially when cut deeply inside, it may sooth the pain, if nothing else.
Doesn't matter he thinks, “I am dying anyway, and then I will understand what life truly is!”
Is "HE" me? I wonder; there's a strong possibility!