He drops on the sandy folds,
Of a deathly bed,
A lost traveler of a mighty desert,
Who had got a surplus flashlight,
and a surplus compass and the surplus
watch, (all surplus comforts)
But a tired bad luck catch,
Was too great to surmount,
In the plenty of feeble count,
A way of life in which the difference between plethora and wreck could be measured by a few inches of rain or a few nights of frost,
Sensing instinctively that it was some
kind of ill - omen, that within its rusting hulk, was a legacy of failure that one should steer clear of whether from courtesy or saving,
It had the inclination to interfere
with the upbringing,
Being lost - as evidence - as if it were a divine decree - that had no choice.
Can be taken as a life's lesson.
#WritcoPoemPrompt22



© Mishra Poonam