I PLEGDE TO MY MISSING SOUL
Have I suffered from the hands of the miscreants?
You bunch of thieves, taker of faith and killer of dreams
My words are lost but to you my pen shivers in pain
My ink are blood and my papers are thirsty
My scream will come loud and so my wail in no words
You gave me my freedom with death lurked in it
My body is peeling and my soul dying; living dead am I?
I am quavering and so my mother in grave
The one which your soul eating freedom caught by lungs
Death in white garment and fleet of cars?
Then I'll write with my ink drenched in your blood
The wealth meant for the dead cramped in isolation
The weakening bred on the tiny bed struggle to survive
The homeless wanderer stung by bees of misfortunes
And the little kid shivering in cold with no shelter as home
And the little old man with empty bowl crawling the street
Just like the living dead with lost faith, breached spirit
The freedom you showed to which we're blindfold
The plegde to which I hold, with my palm soaked with blood

© Whitephoenix