Poor Musician

A guitarist strumming by the passage of a park
Diving in the depths of past, lost in his thoughts
Fingers sliding on the frets playing sad notes
Daughter is ill and job is fled, now theater’s outcast
He loves her lass more than his dignity and soul
Loss of her lass will lead him to the top of disbelief
Chords are begging in a lilt for a life and a belief
His art and skill is stigmata peeping out of his face
Stinger pick is like a stab on spiral strings and heart
Bath of applause and claps of elites ended in smoke
A thud sound hails him of a coin inmate of hollow
Drops of blessing started falling with a lower pace
Streams of eyes are faster than droppings from skies
He was staring at the ground forgot the sight of sky
Memories are cultivated in soil irrigated with his tears
No traces of the spilled blood in the sun, ego is slain
Life will cheat him one day and happiness will return

Copyright 2005, Asif Mehmood (Author)