Backstreet- III

I've experienced my creativity reaching in dark corners of humanity, which has left me in a unconcluded world. We all witness unfair incidents, some out of us extend our help and some could pass sympathy and we all take away some lesson from it. 

Backstreet is a series of my poems from those dark corners, in which I've tried to bring my imaginations sweeping these unfair stories. Backstreet-III belongs to this old potter who makes mud toys for kids and pots for his town. 

So here it is...

An old potter from backstreet

The yellow palms and his effete eyes,

a little seclusion, to sanctify. 

The bustle backstreet with its first grieving, 

but some brawled, some scowled, a few screams but many soured. 

A loose boney old, with all his breaths empty,

now resting sane with murk smile, leaving no scope for empathy.

He had come back from bedlam, but this time not shrilling,

Only carved into body and soul, and some shuck and sanies.

When neighbors witnessed the old man's killing,

It filled them with dread, which later kept on refilling.  

They kept the silence, and didn't call the evil's name, 

The inquiry went back clueless, and she escaped the blame. 

That satan in hat and buskins, is now the town's empress, 

Letting those timids summoned, is being shameless.

Cremation was to happen, but none was yet dismissed, 

His wrinkled body didn't care, when his friends couldn't assist. 

A tyke came along to her favorite old man's door. 

She had been collecting mud toys from his small old shop. 

Her parents believed his purity, performed his last riots, 

It was passing through the street, leaving the town in quiet. 

A temple on the another side, sending blessings across the street,

An elf drew a bridge to heaven, and the potter found his peace.

This cortege precis, and the prayer predate his sate, 

Leaving the goodness behind, the backstreet relived its faultless fate. 

@BrownRadha