It Hurts to be Me.

The effervescent night cries its silent lullabies

the chroniclers of substance note the last hymn

Of stories of Hope and chivalry of men long lost

to an undefined catharsis of bygone memories.

It hurts to envisage the past.

The hungry eyes of the man and that of the child,

two different worlds,they highlight

and yet the Hunger seeps off the rest

the only survivor is the victim of the two.

It hurts to resonate the echoing silences.

Tamed fear like a tear drop, falls gently

like the clattering of the crockery,left unwashed

after the innuendo of the extravaganza

A celebration of another worldly discourse-now faded and lost.

It hurts to laugh when you wish to smile.

Lament, with age grows like coal on fire

slowly extinguishing within its own lingering gray

As it dissolves sublimely into the air

Like a mirage through a raindrop, suspended like a prayer.

It hurts,

It hurts to be Me.