Monkey stitched to the soul

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There's a monkey stitched to the fabric of our soul. It jumps from day to day, year to year, decade to decade. Its mouth shaped like an empty bowl and its vacuous eyes pouring hunger. It sprints from tree to tree for a fruit or with its primate mates. Sips water from the nearest lake and ambles under a tree for shade. It ain't sure if its manmade but it gropes the distasteful plastic leaves. The monkey finally seeks solace under the twilight on a terrace. Spreading its arms and legs on the mattress, it awaits for its eyes to close and its fantasy to begin. The monkey is now unstitched from the soul. The soul celebrates. It sits by the parapet wall and looks at the balmy evening--a lullaby.

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