How does it feel to show to oneself,
A part of you that was left behind-
- while trying to shield those memories from self-
A madman who was idealistic and kind.
Who drove like slaves, and kept on toes,
Himself and his dear comrades alike;
Who couldn't discern between scorn or love
And for whom both praise and slog was fine.
Till one fine day, when he drove to the brim
And lost himself - and the ones he loved
In a darkness that was bleak and grim
Except for a light that left him moved-
For life -and sustained his belief in goodness-
And made love and faith, and cheer his business.
PS: Originally written on 11 mar 2008
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