A Closed Door. A Blank Floor
A closed door
A blank floor
A canvas across the wall
A man who sits small
Seated by the brook
Man becomes the crook
Man is simply one
With all, that stands to be won
A bar stool, a beer
A tear, for each passing year
To fathom, is to fear
To fear is to feel
To feel is to form
“Nothing” the only norm
“Nothing” nourishes the storm
Rain and pain in tow
Boredom makes me mull
Quaaludes makes me dull
A beer serves me right
To withstand the eternal fight
Where to go? What to say?
We all wither, to die another day
Empty stands, waiting hands
Pray or prowl
Run, scream, laugh or howl
Let it be, words just a wait.
Become the bard. Become the bait
This empty fate, yet full our stroke
Sober or drunk, beauty or bloke
Beauty or bloke
Beast or yeast
Rhymes are crimes, feelings a feast
Years spent yearning, for the egg and the yolk
Chimes await, as the wind wrestles to choke
A closed door
A blank floor
A canvas across the wall
A man who sits small
A man once tall
A man now still
Waiting in the "name", of some bequeathed will
Slowly rises to pay each bill
Slowly rises to pay his dues
Walks towards his grave, hearing the " Good Old Blues"
© 2017 Nikhil Chopra