He keeps waiting for that distant sun to arrive,
remnants of that warmth still glowing bright,
a vision of burst of light in his pliant mind
keeps his soul alive through the rein of fright.
Even as his large round eyes stare in ghastly horror
at malice in the living and all pervading strife,
and familiar ghouls of wicked rougues and monsters
forever loom large over the cradle of his life,
he peers through the mist into the dark clouds,
soaked numb to the marrow to the world of despise,
seeking that light of compassion from a flaming star
of balmy fantasies drawn in a ride of helpless cries.
He keeps sinking deeper into the abyss of time,
a silent rage of being, between wind and water,
a prisoner in an orb of demons in angels’ clothes,
he breathes in air, of dejection and despair,
but within that sinister gloom of despondence
he kindles a ghost of illumination alive,
of those golden rays that bring his deliverance,
he keeps waiting for that distant sun to arrive.