Occasionally I resort to write prose which might not make much sense. I let out thoughts and write as they come. Afterwards I try to put a semblance of order to those seemingly disjointed sentences.
His world has gone awry
Rock stays steady albeit a little tilted
Only a few souls under that umbrella
A family is deep in conversation oblivious to all else
A lonely boy watches them with deep longing
He is too far away to even listen to the sounds
Any movement in the vicinity is felt by him in his bones
Silence seeps into each pore
Dotted horizon fails to please him
Surprisingly there are not many chirping birds
He listlessly observes an ant climbing on to his right foot
How far would it go
Should he flick it away
Would it return to its home
How would the ant know where he lives
What good that would do
Why do questions become iron hooks, which trap and then tear
Suddenly, he strikes his head
It is his birthday
He has no place to go, no place to call his own
Now dates hold no meaning for him
"That thought releases him from his sorrow"
Photo Credits: Cafe Writing: Option Three.