The Lone Reveler

He sat,
At his lone table,
In the far and dark corner,
And continued,
To revel,
In own company,
And gesticulated to himself,
And talked to himself,
And laughed to himself,
And generally had a good time,
With a glass of clear liquid,
In his hand.
The lone reveler…

Only that,
He was taking water,
From the tumbler,
And he was,
A mad man,
Who habitually,
Wandered in from the streets,
And into the pub,
To have a good time,
Just like he used to,
Before he lost his mind,
Before he lost his job,
He was a lecturer,
A lecturer of the languages,
A polished poet,
A renowned writer,
A gifted orator,
But now,
The reveler exists,
In his own world,
Talking with his hands,
Smiling at passing shadows,
And gazing at a lost world.
He stands up,
And stumbles off into the darkness,
And disappears into the dark night,
A lone figure.
A sad figure.
A miserable soul.
A disturbed spirit.
The lone reveler…

© Ayoub Mzee Mzima 2013