[This poem I had written long ago might be seven to eight years ago after watching a music video as far I can recollect now. This was my first attempt at long poem in English. I was correcting and editing it for last few days. Please read it till the end and comment on it besides hitting the Like.]
His days are ordinary. Waking up at morning. Having tea. Then reading paper taking it–
Close to his eyes; his spectacles broken, taped at the joint of the sticks.
His days are ordinary. Having lunch at noon. Then reading a story book before having a–
siesta after gulping down a set of three colored capsules and a syrup.
His days are ordinary. Taking a walk down the street. Sitting on the bench and watching–
Children playing there at the park ’til the day begin to draw its curtain.
His evenings are ordinary. Sitting in the dark quiet as rat and looking at the wall,–
Lightened by the passing light of the traffic and the signboard of the bar on the other–
Side of the road; the wall though not ordinary. It’s a gallery;
There’re frames, broken and hazed mostly, capturing moments of an extraordinary man.
S’times posing for a magazine or a product; s’times posed as savior of the day; s’times–
Embracing ladies in the arms with lustful smile and bright eyes–
(though it seems not now–thanks to cobweb and sand of time).
His evenings are ordinary. His neighbor cook his dinner–his son send them money for–
that. He reminiscent the extraordinary days. S’times he got startled by blasts from the–
Past. He was a superhero; he was the blue-eyed boy of the directors;
He was every ladys‘ dream. Those days were ordinary to him and are extraordinary now.
His evenings are like this when he heard, this evening, a woman screaming.
He thought it was a fragment of a dream, he had forgotten of. But, he heard it again.
He got up from his creaking armchair and walked to the window. It is raining softly.
There’s a lady shouting under his window as four men surrounded her. He wrinkled his–
Eyes and saw a crowd–standing and showing a feat of cowardice.
His eyes hazed and a night from long ago appeared in front of him. He couldn’t save her–
But he could. He was the superhero; saving cities, saving people, saving the day and night.
His muscle strained. He walked back from the window and looked at his gallery;–
He brushed the lower rack of the dusted award stand–some web strangle his hand.
He open the door and goes–placing his hand on the wall–he’s a superhero, he doesn’t–
Need a stick or support. He comes down from his second floor holding the railing and–
Stopping then and now to breathe and relax for a bit.
He opened the door and rain were pouring cat and dog. He looked around and saw no one.
His night needs to be ordinary but it is not. He is now sitting in his room–drenched–
From head to toe; his armchair was wet also as he has leaked.
The eyes are going hazier–more with time; the memory seems to be a projectionist–
Playing reels of an ordinary man becoming extraordinary superhuman and then vice versa.
His nights are ordinary. But, tonight it has ‘extra’ prefixed to it.
His morning, his evening, his night will be extraordinary, again, from morrow for few next
Days. He closed his eyes ordinarily to embrace the ordinary, though the extraordinary,
truth of life.
He murmured–silence…camera rolling…The Death of a Superhero Day 1…start…
Daily Prompt: Ordinary
Posted for Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Photo Challenge#157 (03/25/2017)