Nostalgia

What it was? Unthinkable:
he had become inaudible
to himself.
Intramurality in defiance?
or falling from perfectibility?

The terrible stench;
and toxic fumes rising from decaying passions.
The flesh middle age, blocked arteries
fear of schizophrenia?

Scion of royalty clapping for wheels,
shine and color
hanging by a thread of hate.

This was life without a hero.
Pacers-by caring for posters only
Whisking the sounds away.

Many in the one
nostalgia of shapes.

poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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