A Fictitious Poet

A Fictitious Poet

At the corner of the room, where only kerosene lamp’s light glows,
head slightly bent over the ancient narra table, a man, divorced, sits

in solitude, in front of him his grandpa’s gold pen and a block note—
of winter hues. And, in the aroma of a beautiful life, he, too, believes

without doubt he could have written it, his own life, with great love and
glamour when he had the chance. Surely, he sees his ala M. Twain’s

beard silver-grayed and touches it, for awhile. Yet for him, it seems he
was not that old, he feels the strength, of handsome Adonis—the youth,

like the olden years, rhyming fast in a fleeting time of his last days. He
thinks of himself, how his alter ego hurt him in many ways, not abiding

in his own older blood, who once chided him and said: “Oh believe me,
my son, you can not write your life of today tomorrow, you better start

now!” The time lost, smiling back at him, in mirthful caution that makes
him not to dawdle over star wars—vodka with coke, his favorite drink,

as he consumes the scented roll, puffing, the fumes—in delicate rings,
whilst his eyes glued, at his one line-sentence, penned in small letters:

a fictitious poet. Alas, too many unforgiving wives calling get him drunk;
he, soon, falls asleep, his face leaning on the narra table. Smoke, gone.