His stooping frame now evoked pity.
Gone were the days when he walked,
With his head held high.
His fiery words that once shook,
The amoral foundations were now slurred.
The previous bout of illness,
Had reduced him to a mere vegetable.
But they couldn’t wipe the slate clean within.
So he would yearn for that time of the day,
When his eight year old grandson came,
To spend some time, listening to his tales,
None of which were intelligible.
The boy was forced to sit with him,
Never came on his own, he knew it.
But he craved company,
So, even an unwilling listener was most welcome.
The ideas grand and green as his youth,
Had failed miserably,
For every clique, has a Judas.
Even now he sits up sweating profusely,
The gunshot ringing in his ears as,
His sleep is haunted by grim reminiscences of,
The false encounter that took away a leg,
Splintered his utopian dreams, crippled his ideologies
as,
The shards of his own high hopes pierced,
His entire being and remained embedded forever.