The Shadow Figure.

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Election, Election, Election… damn you all politicians and political talkers. HBO 24/7 that’s my channel. Well… I fell asleep during a busy day at work. Hell ya… tired to thinking too deep into programs. Hehehe… I am cool now. WuLong Tea… anyone heard about it. It is good. 

  After reading the above said paragraph one can figure out what I am going through. This moment I am looking at a election report, then a movie report, the next moment I am reading poem in some Xanga site, next I will be fixing a problem reported at work. See I am doing too many things at the same time. The ever consistent life is falling like the leaves of the trees around. But I am here to stay for another winter and then I will blossom into another weird spring and summer. Said all that… if someone ask me how many more winters you want to watch I’d say… a trillion more even if I am alone in this planet.

  This poem, I wrote it at work a deliberate effort to change the crazy things I was doing all morning. Ever stood in the middle of a country market. I have done that a lot. Even though I seldom bought anything. It is interesting how people behave there. I started the poem with that thought and got the rest of it while scribbling it.

 Enjoy the evening.


The Shadow Figure.


Picture yourself in the middle of the crowd,

Market place where sellers with their produce shout,

Passionate buyers scrambling for the best,

Worth it or not, some ask, many don’t.


The world revolves around you as you wish,

As none cared to look at you unless,

You have a handful to sell,

To their liking, not to anyone’s benefit.


For those who have nothing to sell,

And nothing to buy and nothing to buy with,

Oh’ they are pebbles in the screaming stream,

Dragged on and polished in ways they don’t want.


The crowd around at empty handed they look,

With perceptions in mind that they are out there to loot,

Oh’ in the middle of the crowd nothing they seek,

May be another soul who doesn’t have anything to sell or buy.


From the wilderness of the market he tried to walk,

Far, far away where a bit of peace of mind he seek,

But in this prison of air, dust water and noise,

No place have he found, where there are no sellers or buyers.


No soul he found who looked at his eyes without a scary thought,

And through the crowd with a hood covering his head he walked,

No word to say, no destinations known, his walks, never ending continued,

Not knowing a shadow figure wrote these lines about him.


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