The broke man pockets a lottery,
Every time, dawn rises, with an orb of fire,

Aurora’s surprise, light’s epiphany,
Crossing a crack in a curtain,

How the crow is now cawing,
On an electricity line. Ominous you could say.

While the magpie and the myena, search for seeds
Like I am, tiny seeds to renew my lease of life,

To germinate a new chapter in my life,
One absolved of pain and suffering.

The past, a doorway that time enters
At the same dreaded pace, like a navel of an hourglass,

While I become a wasting doormat,
Fate, takes for a slave, and perhaps God too

Making me like biblical Job, who lost everything
And still stood by God’s cheek.

I’m sucked into a large black hole,
To a place and time, called the future,

That comes unannounced on most times.
I lift myself up, and draw open the curtain,

Of the one window in my bedroom;
That in itself, a ritual of hope.

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