BROKEN


Broken. 

He doesn’t talk much , he doesn’t walk much. I’m scared that he’s in dumps. I worry , he’s always dreary. I’m sorry but I cannot help.

Broken. 
He’s living a mundane life , always carries in his pocket , a knife and I’m scared that he’ll kill my love. He’ll kill the pigeons and the doves.

Broken. 
He’s more cloudy than the darkest clouds. He’s abjected. I feel dejected , for my soft spot is on flames. I’m scared that there’s no one to blame. I couldn’t even claim so I’ve to continue playing this woeful game.

Broken.
He’s breathing but not alive. He’s waiting for his funeral , watching everyone ethereal and blaming himself for this life. I’m scared that his winters will last forever , and he won’t get to see the autumn and the summer.

Broken.
Mondays are , as always , blue but he’s got no clue. He’s started enjoying the gloom , living in his garden without a bloom. I’m scared that he’s stuck and he cannot move. He’s made a forlorn , bereaved castle for himself , with the guards , themselves , in doldrums.

Broken. 
He’s learned to pretend that his jagged corners are fine to live with , when actually they’re cutting him into pieces and slices , a little , everyday. I’m scared that his shaky hands , the ones which once rocked drums in a band , will no more be able to hold cigarettes. And I’ll be left behind , without him , with regrets.

Broken.
Not only he’s , but I’m too. I’m in pain to see that the cracks in the wall are still empty , that the bummer is still here in summer. I’m scared that I’ll be downhearted and heartbroken. That I’ll be in gloomy clouds too. Not just torn apart , he is. He’s killing me too.

Broken. 
This six-letter word had never been so significant in my life before , but now it appears everywhere , on every door. And I’m not just scared but petrified too that I won’t be able to help him.

Broken.
He WAS. He used to cry. I never did try. And now , I’m not scared. I’m dead because he’s too. I never wanted to loose him but as I’m now left with nobody , I wish I could be THAT somebody to help him get away from entering this conundrum and once again , happily , let him play his drums.

Broken. 
He wouldn’t have been. But I was scared and didn’t want to be scared anymore so I gave up , in between. And now , as I lean , I’m keen to know that why couldn’t I care a bit more? Why couldn’t I lead him to the shore?

Broken. 
Now , I’m. And I’m not scared. I’m just DEAD.

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