Stale Evenings

Days end with stale evenings

When people drink blood with crackers;

And clinking of glasses

Tries to replicate real laughter.

Everyone present is lost in past

But ‘”good old days” are just a myth,

Scattered with miserable and diseases

And the stigma of unemployment

There is no youth left

And the search for fountain is lost too.

There is no certainty except that-

Days end with stale evenings.

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