(Many a times there are lives which don’t seem to be parallel with our lives. But, these lives do exist. So here is the forgotten tale of the old man whose name was never known, but whose mind was loud and beautiful and I wish I would’ve heard that music.)
A scornful smile filled his lips as he walked.
The old man at the Church was what he was called.
He swept and he mopped and purged the traitors to God.
He swam and dunked and walked for miles in light, for the light.
A cold summer evening, he put on his husky hat,
Smiled a smile of gloom and galloped,
With a lantern in one hand and a casket in another.
His beloved rested in an old, willow hut,
Where the olive brew cooked.
He scorned at the sun, and laughed at the orangish aura of the autumn leaves.
He whimpered in pain, and stared forlorn,
The old armoire was bleeding rust,
Cracking up in moths and dust,
Scooping his dreams with a hollowed broomstick and lazy moonlight,
He laughed at the greyhound room’s hallucinations and flames,
Whimpering in the sawdust and scrapples,
Numb with the mischief of his tattered, unhinged, unabashed mind.