Sundays

As a ritual, on Sunday mornings,

I would wake up at six past eight

In the morning round the year,

(Now don't ask me why I wake up

Exactly at 8:06 AM, there's absolutely

No rhyme or reason behind when

Sleep decides to evade my system)

And find myself heading towards

The buzzy, busy bazaar behind

The tall twenty-storeyed building

That was built on the dead bodies of

Hundreds of people begging

Not to tear down their houses,

Houses that were supposed to

Keep them safe from the big bad evil

That the world keeps handing over

On a beautiful, ornate porcelain plate;

Now, I am not a shopper,

But the bazaar behind the building

Offers a weird sort of peace,

The voices outside somehow manage

To shut down the screams inside,

But what always, ALWAYS amuses me

Is a kid that sells balloons,

(Well, a kid, because

He's definitely younger than me)

Why does he amuse me?

Because he barely tries to sell what he has,

He just sits, sometimes stands,

In a corner of a decrepit house

That served as a makeshift post office

In some ancient timeframe,

This guy, this young adult,

Just stares into the crowded void

In front of him, lost in his thoughts,

I wonder if he is ever able to sell

Even a single balloon from

The bunch of beautiful balloons

That he carries around on his bony shoulders,

But I have never seen him

With a single frown on his broad forehead;

I have always wanted to know about him,

But by the time it's 11 AM,

The sun bores into my head,

And I am too fragile to bother

About the existence of another being,

But maybe next Sunday,

When sleep decides to leave my body.

// NaPoWriMo, Day 6