Thursday, 28 October 2010


He died of a stifled thought
a thought
that never left his nicotine lips.

His lips were busy
faking smiles
too busy
to utter.

His eyes were busy
trapping tears
too busy
to speak.

He tried
drowning the thought
smoking it out
even at times
to swallow it
like forgotten pride.

But all thoughts
are cannibals
leaving behind
hollow as a riot.

Some say he confided
in the old tree
but leaves speak only to the wind
and the branches are too twisted.

And now
we shall never know
the thought that killed a man.


  1. Well expressed, one can relate to their individual moments of pain. Kills us internally, isnt it?