A Better Way

A Better Way prose poem

Photo by LorenzWorkz

Is there really no way out?
He thinks everyday
Every morning Waking up with boredom
Need to find a cause, a better one
He digs up the dump of memories
A happier one, a brighter one
The dust is everywhere
Only the misplaced sunbeam
Through the loopholes of windows
Can make it barely visible
The iron bed is there
Old, torn dirty with time
The bed is getting older than time
Like the man lying on it…
The sunbeams could reach a little
Barely touchable where he is laid
There’s no clock, no disturbing ticking sounds
Or any hourly buzz to make him aware-
He is getting one hour older
A better one… He tries to concentrate
60 years on foot, rest twelve on bed
The iron’s getting old, the bed dirty
The sunbeams reaching a few inch more in winter
No ticking of clock…
He lost track of time
Every midday… More silent than his breath
Every afternoon more hazy than his memory
A better cause…
He keeps on hunting…
The long building…hundred rooms..
Empty as his soul
A little piece of plaster falls again from the roof
A way must to be decided…
A better one… A better one..

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