The village drunk

He walks by the market,
stumbling and tripping.
He dances and falls
and gets back on his feet.

He mumbles and moans
and screams and whispers.
He stops the passers,
and calls them close.

Him and his bottle, of ale, in his arms.
As he walks by the houses,
the brothels,
the farms.

He yells at the trees
and tells them his tale,
of losing his love
and becoming this frail.

He talks to the ghosts
and tells them his past.
With me there in silence,
while he speaks to shadows cast.

He sits on my grave
and speaks out his heart.
Drunk on the wine
that the lord hath once passed.

I watch him in his daze
while the children throw stones.
He curses these rascals
as he falls and breaks bones.

It doesn’t matter to him,
what the towns folk think.
The broken-hearted little idiot
with only his drink.

He sleeps on the streets,
passed out and drunk.
Praying for a way
to pull him out of this trunk.

The one he’s locked himself into.
The one in his mind.
The one in his darkness.
For love he can no longer find.

By: Viraj Belgaonkar

4 thoughts on “The village drunk

  1. It’s a sad and great tale at the same time, but I must say, you should have maybe used a different word other then “hipster”. The whole poem is full of great diction and word-weaing is great, the rhymes flow nicely, it is just that word stinging into my eyes. I imagined an older time combined with nowadays and it still does not seem to fit :/

Pen it... or aaa type it. u know what i mean.

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