The wishing hell

The voices, the sounds,
And the coins that jingle.
Mix and mingle
Like there were no bounds.

One fine day, the sounds became noises
Muting the flies and even the bee
That's when they said- It's time to flee
And that was the last of the Market Day.

He then dove into another hell
Wishing for the noise to end
And now he sits flicking a coin
Calling it his very own private well.


True, the world out there
Walks on and on
In their private hells of well
It's an unseen Market Day.

I am the coin that used to be
But now, just a piece of metal to thee.

(In response to 'The Market Day')