Cannibal Green,
saw the scene
on a cold dark winter morning,
from the window of his kitchen.
A young man with a scrawny face,
walked at the pace of a chicken.
The feeble shadows gained on him from behind,
grew darker and darker and soon without making him realize,
left him behind,
and disappeared.
He saw cars without driving seats running on gas and fumes.
The blowing wind sang the beats of the apocalyptic tunes.
Just like the love song of Alfred .J. Prufock,
the winds twisted and turned to mock,
the coming noon
which had, of late, been as cryptic as the rune.
The young man stomped his feet like a rebel,
like a horse's hooves on marble floors,
He stood at the edge of the cross-roads,
As if to make a deal with the devil.
He had heard of it in his village's folklores,
while the maidens of the slum ha**led with chores,
nobody saw the young man's lone.
The sun rose silently,
and to his face brought clarity.
Cannibal Green, in silence,
was shocked to see the similarity,
between him and the young man who he,
for a second, mistook for himself.
The chance to bid farewell
to this dream of his, disappeared as the smog swept the town.
Until he realized that there was neither man nor a window.
Said with a sad frown -
“There is no hell beneath me or heaven above”. With his lips frozen,
buried in the ground.