Facing a storm seemed easy before.
My eyes go sore.
Now, even to a single mote.
Wearing the hood of arrogance
I used to stand tall, looking down.
With a hunchback, now I wait to bite the dust.
Balmy summer nights seem to drain me out;
And the first drizzle of rain tends to pierce me deep.
An aversion I have developed, now to all seasons four.
Taking refuge in dimly lit corridors and opium dens, I would snort;
Where the alley of shadows welcomed me with wide open arms.
Now, I can’t even count on my own shadow for shade.
Who smoked weed giving me company, reclining on the couch.
Now all it has in store is a sigh of relief once I’m gone.