The Little Boy

Posted by Uma Bokil
November 21, 2017

Self-Published

His life was languid
Around him, was colour
Colour to everything, except him.
Orphaned at four, his life knocked over.
His fate left hanging on the brim.
Looking at every pair of intertwined hands,
One big, the other small,
The bigger one protectively wrapped around the little one,
The emptiness in him dug deeper, stabbing him over and over again.
All he craved for was love in the end.
Alone in a city, enthralled by its beauty
No one to go to, no one to hold
Never had he felt so abandoned
In an abundant cluster of struggling lives.
The wishes he threw in the well were ungranted
What did he know about the reality that hit him so hard?
What kind of love would be known by a boy who was so marred?
The nightmares didn’t stop, and neither did the wrecked demons that tortured him to death.
He woke up with the sun with very little faith.
The sun rays failed to light up his chamber of darkness
His existence unwanted, he was a mess.
No inspiration, no goals,
The little faith he had was blown.
The days grew darker
The seeds of emptiness had grown
Into monstrous trees with ruthless branches
That choked him,
Tightening around his dying life,
And strangled his soul
Till his breathing slowed to a halt.
The little boy who never got a chance,
Surrendered to life, still feeling at fault.

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