He lives in lone houses with creepers,
And wonders about colors in the dark.
Smudged writings cover all his papers,
The ink from the quill strewn on the table,
A harmless time-pass he savors from heart.
He lives in happiness and writes about pain,
Of broken courtships and tangled love.
He muses about life in underground earth,
And pens them down with his scribbles.