Broken lives, meandering smiles

Idioms stitched in a haywire.

Times fail but the human trails,

Clear sky and an open mind.

A flower long forgotten.


An emperor of a crown or a troubled flower seller?

Hither and thither he shouts,

Sometimes crawling in a busy market space,

Sometimes borrowing from a dream.

Flowers or dreams?

What he sells?

A meal for an empty stomach at large,

A dying body at the dumping yard.


A broken leg, an empty stomach, and a watchful eye

Is all that’s there in his home.

It doesn’t speak of flowers or dreams.

It reeks of sustenance, an undue existence.

A forgetful society, harrowing times and powerful lords

That neither chimes nor rhymes.


Sunflowers, roses, marigolds?

What’s the flower that bears the strength of all? – they ask.

The strength to bury time as a foe

Or is it just a petunia that bore?

They demand and he supplies

But where’s his supply?

It’s buried in the hope of another time.

Still, the brokenness climbs, treads the busy lanes.

A flower forgotten in time.


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