I may pen the sorriest line tonight,
like the stars are but twinkling stomachs
of unlimited hunger,and the sun is so
but the fire inside ,the heart of jungle
but would it let the unknowns feel any better.
I may draw these verses of mine
in my own blood, sweat and pain
but if our conscience
is dead and buried
shan't all be in vain.
For what use are my words.. If,
they do not make
the hearts bleed,
with the untamed agony
of the unequals in need.
The poetry is worthless
if it does not fill the minds
with the arriving fear,
when all the opinions are snatched of us
and what is left are our own unbathed tear.
alas we are numb now,
of our abused luxury
and abundant opulence.
we are slaves of our own ignorance
devoid of any moral penitence..