Footpath...

The habit of a half-starved stomach
Sleeps,embracing the insignificant entity...





On the edge of the footpath
A beggar,without a name to call.

All of her self,masked
In some dirty nickels and dimes...





A few familiar flies
Once,twice,thrice
Kisses,grown of neglect
A thick skin of the city's dirt...


The cheap chalice of clay
Every bit of it,blended
In,a graphic mortal,and
The insipid stories of,one more...




Another of the eyes,that dreamt
Wasted,at the length of the poetry,penned...



Alloyed in the last smoke,of
A depleted cigarette.


One more of a spoilt innocence
Contained,in the tobacco-stained walls...





People,or just the loneliness within
Prefers losing itself,in the crowd
If,that could be the cure,for a moment...





Perched alone,more of habit
The lamp post by the road
Hides,in its tired eyes
A thousand stories,untold
A spent footpath of the city.....