There is a book lying in my shelf

he used to call it a classic

he would read it out to himself

after I would fall asleep

under the dimly lit lampshade

in his black rimmed glasses

letting the rest of us fade

sinking into the word play

of those classical masters

detached from modern day

but with questionable morals.

He’d picture me as one of them

those wistful tragic puppets

that life would often condemn

to a fate of struggle and hardship

who would endure with grace

each day with a smile on her lip.

Who said it is only women

with distorted dreams and hopes?

one look at these new age men..

with their lofty ideals and ropes

to tie the goose they deem fit

around their waist to waste

tearing the heart of each misfit

and you know you’d be one too

a discarded doll at the end of it

and thus I have only the book

to remember the strokes

of his fingers as he took

each page in his slender hand

reading softly his masters

under the dimly lit lampshade

in his black rimmed glasses

letting the rest of us fade

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