Dasim

Little Man

Walking seriously,

Neither slowly nor fast,

With purpose in mind,

Or maybe not.

Pockets heavy with doubts,

Eyes a bit dreamy,

Seeing some things,

Missing others.

A life’s story

Written on his face

For those who care to see.

Anxious, yet unwilling

To be home, where

Dreams and Memories

Born from illusions

And hidden in shame

Like a thief’s bounty

Roam freely,

Jealously guarded

By a faithful silence.

Photographs stare

But ask no questions

Or demand apologies.

Dinner with shadows

Summoned by wine.

Loneliness vanishing 

In trivial chores.

Pink evening light

The only witness

As he prepares

 For another day.