Saturday, 29 December 2012

In the dead of the afternoon...

In the glum of the sullen hours of day,
perched in a corner,
fixated on the bliss of the rain drops,
the rain that hovers,
through the seams of air,
but never pours...
He strums the strings of his Spanish guitar,
strangely striving for serenity,
solitude and purpose-
seeking the evasive,
on a quest to seize the elusive,
the fugitive truth,
the facts his simple mind cannot fathom.
He murmurs to ponder,
softly hums to make full sense,
of why the world be thus so vile to him,
so callous and oblivious,
indifferent to his emotions and weak heart.
He creates a symphony so melancholic,
brine waters trickling down his boyish face,
whose youthful charm has vanished,
In the dead of night,
with his mistress who fled,
while he was in a far away land,
who once vehemently vowed:
she would never leave,
till death done them part.
In the dead of afternoon,
he slouches in the void spaces of his heart,
making emotionally hardened music...

photo credits; chrischakwana

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