I searched his eyes in the briefest of moments,
I looked in places no one did,
And saw the emptiness of his soul.
In that split of second,
I heard his soul cry for help,
Like a man set ablaze in his own abode.
I felt the stench of his breath,
The smell of his rotten soul,
Fouled by the odour of liquor.
I watched as he staggered on,
Barely keeping his feet on the ground,
As he walked away from my sight.
I felt the regret in his mind
the sorrow he singly bore
As he muttered words unheard
I saw children greet him with scorn
And he in vain his hurt repress,
As he gently he muted voice cursed.
I wathed him stagger beyond my sight.
I read from him a history of paid,
one only woeful men said.
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Comments about this poem (The Drunkard by Precious Okidika )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
(1207 - 1273)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(10 February 1970-)
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