He’d stand at the balcony
Staring at the streets below
A cigarette and whisky neat
Was all that broke his reverie.
Those days he’d blend into the wind,
Making it up as things went
Some days he’d close his eyes
And wish for a miracle of some kind
But life wasn’t meant to be made sense, he’d then realise.
Some nights the breeze died,
The cigarette hung from his lips,
A last drag,
He’d take one last look at the city below
Say his goodbyes to his secret spot
And merge with the civilisation and continue the small talk.
Feature Image: Pixabay