Mid-december in Antarctica he desired to chase spring,
He wanted to breathe while lying in a pinned down coffin.
He sat by the fireplace with no wood in stock,
He tried to light a fire with dripping wood logs.
He kept watering a dead rooted plant,
Hoping for flowers and fruits by the Dawn.
He dwelled on this erroneous thought –
That he was safe and sound lying in the eye of the storm.
Sailing into the doldrums,
He looked out for haste and chaos.
Hoping for rain accessorized with umbrella and boots,
He walked the desert with an empty bottle along.
What he thought to be love never loved him back
He had embarked on a journey with an empty sack.