When his life belongs to a mysterious hand

He writes day & night
And erase sometimes.
Then writes again.
He drinks a lot and stops
When there is no funds.
Starts again when his wallet sounds.
He walked thousands of miles
But he feels still at the same place.
One day he spoke to an insect
It struggles to survive in a cobweb.
'Dear! How could I help you
When my life too belongs to a mysterious hand?

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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