The usual response

On a lonesome street on a monday morning
An appartment room of a single accommodation
Found a young man of about thirty
Dead, wrapped in sheets of sheer agony.
For the ambiance of the place was such
The shattered crockery at a nearby distance
Walls painted with unambitious designs
Screaming the state of mind of a ‘sane’ meadow.
In no time mourners shall arrive
The mechnical hands of some anonymous dream
Working aimlessly and sexually insane
A mere irony to the young man’s game.
His cause of death is uncertain
But as one might be so logical enough to realise
Overpowering stress and underwhelming satisfaction
Has made many lives accustomed to death.
Do you have a purpose in life?
Yoing boys like you should go all the way out
Running, shinning, dreaming the big picture
But what if the canvas holds shy of my unusual nature.
I am a mere character in His mysteries
A mere unit of the production gone wrong
The world that is the assembly line
Would only but replace the sad life.