Mercy1 min 281 1 min 281
On a long evening highway,
He drives to settle the trades of mind.
Slowest of the wheels passing past him,
Winds borrowing his breaths full of tobacco,
The hue of horizon only getting more stained,
With that of a murderously orange dusk-
"There ain't no end" he sighs.
His wearied eyes are a masterpiece,
Conning their very commander;
Looking pervasively for some 'chai'
And leaving their jobs of beholding the highway to mere intuition.
Festivals or no festivals he ponders,
"I'm never done with my holidays."
But how could a man be ever done with holidays?
Things that make him breathe,
For the same next mornings and nights to come.
What else can keep him marching ahead,
If not his woman or his habits?
The combusting engine drops,
And he gets down the seat,
Standing tightly upright.
"Cutting", he gestures reaching halfway,
Towards his promised land.
Hands turn back to the old business,
Of burning cigarettes (far inexpensive than his spirits).
Devils disguised in fair cloaks he knows.
"At least they have Mercy".