Inching or stagnant
at the 'heart' of my mind
is a sheet of pain...
or a film of fear
that plays again
over the same 'films'
of past—and—future
that I watch as melancholy
turns to monochromy
and every colour is
but a melting glacier
of grey—
until my old man
calls out my name
and pats my back
awakening the unslept
from a worthless slumber
of a hopeless dream
in a blink,
with a smile.
