There is a book lying in my shelf
he used to call it a classic
he would read it out to himself
after I would fall asleep
under the dimly lit lampshade
in his black rimmed glasses
letting the rest of us fade
sinking into the word play
of those classical masters
detached from modern day
but with questionable morals.
He’d picture me as one of them
those wistful tragic puppets
that life would often condemn
to a fate of struggle and hardship
who would endure with grace
each day with a smile on her lip.
Who said it is only women
with distorted dreams and hopes?
one look at these new age men..
with their lofty ideals and ropes
to tie the goose they deem fit
around their waist to waste
tearing the heart of each misfit
and you know you’d be one too
a discarded doll at the end of it
and thus I have only the book
to remember the strokes
of his fingers as he took
each page in his slender hand
reading softly his masters
under the dimly lit lampshade
in his black rimmed glasses
letting the rest of us fade