Wednesday, November 12, 2014

The Median Man

He used to be someone's wee little babe,
soft, innocent and pure.
But now his eyes are a white ocean,
with red currents and yellow bays.
His mouth slightly open, as if the
wind has stolen his words.
He is surrounded by two worlds,
that flow in different directions.
Smoke hangs in the air, like a
curtain of despair.
The hot gravel uder his cracked feet,
burning him, branding him.
The Tea man pities him.
The Tea man feeds him sometimes but
it is not enough, never enough.
He is not like the others,
who beg from conveniently frugal ghosts.
For he is just standing. Just standing.
His pilgrimage more severe than most,
has left him not bent, but broken,
and like the abandoned home of the crustaceans, washed ashore,
he is just a shell of a man,
empty within and useless,
just a peculiar object at best.
But he used to be someone's wee little babe,
Soft innocent and pure.

- Diya


So this poem actually has a back story. Everyday when my mother goes to work she sees an old man standing on a median (the small wall separating lanes on the road) and he is just standing. He doesn't beg, nor does he sit down. He looks sickly and confused, and it is evident he has a mental problem. There is a little tea shop next to where he stands and the man who works there feels bad for him, and feeds him occasionally. When my mother told me she wanted me to write a poem about him, I complied. Now for those of you who don't really understand some of the words you can check out my book on Whattpad, which is a site where you can publish your own works as well as read others. The link is given below, and the Median man is the attest poem, along with an explanation to really understand the poem. Site Link:
So that's it for now :) Have a great day :) 

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