He lay perfectly quiet, prince like godot Still in sublimity In a deep peaceful sleep By the warm comfort Of his wide bedside. Not a muscle moved and his perfect countenance Lay in singular surrender, in a deep yogic trance, In reverent submission, To his final supreme provider Awaiting him with open arms For his
As they sit across the inert wooden table in sheer boredom of their midlife, She stares boldly at his daily newspaper eyes fixed upon some distant thought aimlessly, and his cup of hot tea languishes in similar toil as the spiralling steam of insipid dreams, diminish, in vanishing trails of yesteryears She raises her moist
She sits by the window All quiet by herself At the crack of dawn Listening attentively to the carefree chirping birds And something enormous Tries to fill Her empty soul With a million Smiles of nothingness She then clutches onto the grey round grills By the alley window Securing her firmly From the rush outside
