My little foolish heart,
No longer beats, because he has a new job.
He listens carelessly, nonchalantly.
He morphs into a victim of killing smiles,
Because listening is disheartening, deceiving, deviating.
Oh yeah, I shouldn’t have listened to James Morrison.
Or, I should have control over my mischievous heart.
Once, he was a tardy heart.
Long before he falls for smiles that frost his boiling veins.
Beat gleefully, almost exuberantly, with rhythm I took pride of.
Now, scattered in disarray, literally and metaphorically.
He is a curious pilgrim of his own eccentricity.
Ignorable pedestrians, worthless friends, they seek refuge in his conviction!
They swear for celibacy.
He leaps in joviality, nothing excites him more than equal peculiarity.
Bang!
The great expectation shattered.
They laugh like crazy men, insane and senile,
Though none of their action is mockingly ludicrous.
Felicity emancipated. My heart then concedes.
For once, he feels like a piece of jigsaw puzzle,
Created but not allowed to join the bigger picture.
He weeps shamelessly. How cliché and banal it sounds.
Why should I be an odd-one-out?
In one of his boisterous monologue, he asked.
That was long before he finds his long lost sangfroid.
Time the elixir cries for him.
People continue to poke fun of his conventional wisdom.
Too bad.
I somehow symphatize my failing heart.
Fragile he is.
Sways with the direction of wind, turbulent in infinity.
Yet, taunts rain on him, incessantly.
How much more could he take?
