I walked down a dark alley, I remember not why.
Perhaps midnight, and yet something caught my eye.
A young man, like myself, sat alone on a bench.
He hung his head, muttered curses and sat with a hunch..
It was too dark, but I thought he looked almost like me.
“You look upset, dear friend, what would your worries be?”
“Since you asked,” he replied “I shall tell you.
But you may believe only what you believe is true.
I sulk because I think the world revolves around me.
But the world is not six feet two, somehow that I see.
There are enough problems every day, each has his own.
Yet I sulk because my problems are all I’ve ever known.
I fret because though there’s light in every pit of this world,
I hide in this dark alley, like a snail within its shell is curled.
There is enough hope for all, but I’m in this inertia, my friend.
Thus even though there’s day, I live in the night to the end.
I complain about my burden, the cross I struggle to carry.
The world weighs not just a hundred and three, yet people do live merry.
I weep, yet none can console me, for this is what I choose.
The world sees not the agony of one with nothing to lose.”
This man who knew why he sulked was a curious case.
Beneath his hood of darkness, I saw my own sad face.
The alley slowly disappeared, revealing reality to me.
Why my world was dark, I could now clearly see.