The face and heart had been
Sown with joy, aspirations & smiles
Yet life seems adamant to have grown fond of weary & tired fruits of labour

My hands weaken, lungs
Chalk choked while my hands soaked
Dry white

Words spoken to the silent walls;
eyes sink in pocket stars, drawings and shallow blue, while
tweeting birds hide in no man's land.

Speeches, board screeches,
Yet no reaches into minds
That binds to no plan for the time ahead.

Gone bored, mind sore, work poured
But no interest restored and hardwork
Ignored which I could now barely afford.

.   .   .