Almost dead inside,
rotting at a fast pace,
no clear answers to give nor can decide,
soon it would be a nameless corpse with a decayed face.
Life, no glamour or show of courage,
bereft of all traces of emotions,
a soul long dead before a ripe physical age,
Just a shell, living on with accusations and allegations.
A breath of air trapped inside,
its life potency dwindling slowly,
yet no craving for life resides,
for the shell holds nothing holy.
A sad end to all the dreams,
that once were the driving force of this life,
prayers now hold no salvation for the muted screams,
maybe things would be different in the afterlife.
How the shell came into being no one knows,
but now it lies, unearthed even in its end,
a pitiful example, a culmination of all its woes,
Tragic, that life turned out to be so different from what the shell intends.
Loss is the only thing of prominence,
Hollow is the soul that has left after facing such pain,
no clairvoyant can see what was its last show of defiance,
or maybe there was none and his death was slow and insane.
The coroner declares the death of a multitude of blows,
but I believe that it was something inside which died long ago,
not a multitude of enemies who left him looking like a ragged scarecrow,
Yet, what really killed him, no one will ever know.
No one to claim him nor any reports of him being missing,
a sheer wastage of the life he lived,
not a soul to weep over his passing,
or show that he was wanted and loved.
I am alone at his funeral,
seems like he lived alone,just him against the universe,
I am there, as an empty funeral felt unnatural,
For the poor soul, felt more like curse.
As I look at the face of the poor shell on the pyre,
I amusingly wish to see a small smile for the final release from his mortal prison,
And yet I start to feel as if everything turns into a moire,
as I am standing looking at my father's only son.
