Hey, beautiful day, I just wanted to wish—
listen—what your beauty means to me.

My eyes open—6:30, like yesterday;
they know they will not see, even today.

My body bathes, as needed, to face the day;
it knows it will not feel the touch today.

I meditate—it cools the mind every morning;
yet I know, it changes nothing.

Dawn, dusk, or noon—
no flavor.

I know it all,
yet I go on, with a fake smile.

Boring—smile-less, fun-less days;
again, and again—
when do they stop?

I no longer wait for anything to happen;
still, I go to office—
a machine, moving levers.

Years ahead—no cheer,
lived like the dead;
fake, worthless cheerfulness,
worn every day.

Hey, iteration—
the day returns,
and I say,
good morning, once again.

© Amit Choudhary, 2012 (Post 6P)

His horse ran straight into the trap.

He severed heads from necks.

He saved the honor of his people,

and lost his own— 

his head falling from the shoulder.

He, the Hero,

was their ultimate guard.

He ran to his shop every morning,

closed deals with steady hands,

held his temper before louder men,

and carried his family on his back.

He, the Hero,

kept their world from breaking.

© Amit Choudhary, 2010 (Post 4P)