A bohemian lived amongst
us,
till the other day
a moving skeleton
attired in ugly cloths
dishevelled hair
got he drunk and drunk
to the point of
inebriation
wandered, wandered and
wandered
till he got tired
and slept on the way sides.
He lived with a flame
of madness intact
wrote with a flame
of madness welling up
in his veins
his poems
products of his
flames of madness
it touched and burnt our
souls
his acerbic
pen corroded our
hearts and minds
forcing us to writhe in
pain and grief.
Lived he the way he wished
died he the way he wished
anarchist, humanist to the core
and died a pauper
on the street-side
with not a soul to
identify him
landing in the mortuary
among unclaimed
life-less bodies
heaped like garbage.
Gone away
flew away he
to an unknown abode
with a red-rose
placed over his heart
his last wish.
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