Common Man

Uncouth saturday stubble,
stinking rotten cigars of ash trays,
empty bottles of time kissed red wine,
and remains from the indulgent nights on bed.
That is all what their life offers.
There isn’t a respite,
For these old cowardly men;
that rest in silent mediocrity.

Their coarse voice never rebels,
enraged by midnight disoriented spirits.
They don’t call the ‘ugly’, names.
They don’t scream for revolution.

Their agony never becomes an archipelago.
From where life can look for boats. Or try to float.
All their knighthood and daylight pride,
Pleads for a comforting gage, late at dusk.

Their swords and aegis never rise from safe keeps,
Trying to coax, mediate, arbitrate, or threaten;
Their guilt never becomes a gluttonous demon.
From where life can look for food to feed its hunger.

Unrequited love hasn’t corroded their souls,
For their loves are driven by empty lech;
For carnal is God, sloth their religion.
Deals of togetherness, only;
Bulwark against shallow fears.

Grew shadows of apathy,
Walk past them.
Monotony doesn’t wreck their necks;
Ennui is a foreign word, so is stalemate.

There isn’t a respite,
For these poor cowardly men;
As they rest in silent mediocrity.
For they need no respite,
as they aspire to fade away one day;
Unnoticed!
Unlike us.