Crumbling Crib

That little crib where I have spent my golden years,

Was never reminiscent of paternal affection.

Or glorious days of youth’s pretension.

Much suffering and struggle of his it bears,

His deterioration of health till he left us in tears.

This became our residence a tunnel of transition

Where each has an epitaph of thoughts suppression,

Against one another we have been holding spears.

Such ugly stains and marks engraved on walls.

And yet whose memory it holds wasn’t of his happier days.

Rather a story of his constant falls.

After two decades it contains not a sign that says,

Here ever lived a man of such higher calls.

Rather therein his spirit shattered lays.