Walking on the badlands
secluded darkest part if this planet
My heart melts, as I relay this dreaded tale

She crawls with a dwindling hope
Her worn out feet couldn't carry her any longer
HELP ME, she says
With a fainting voice, low parched and raspy  
that's dying from existence.
but the society dares not to blink
From the mare that stares with great fright

She drags her feeble legs
Holding on to chair next to her
While attempting to stand up
Trading her life for mercy
RESPECT ME, she yells
Am I not a human being
for without my womb
Would any if you exist.
A man paused
and paradoxically stared at her
with unquenched thought  of great irate
"what is this thing doing here?"

One day, my poems will not have to tug at soft sheets
in the middle of the night.
there will be no unceremonious start at sundown,
she will descend slowly but surely onto paper,
without being afraid of the dark.
One day, my poetry will not knock her small toe
against a pile of books in a corner,
simultaneously stumbling
over too many tasks that aren't really there.
One day, my poetry will know better than to wake
at the clarion call of the moon,
the rascal himself slowly waking up
from under covers of clouds,
bewitching time
to make it feel like the night is more enticing.
One day, my poetry will awaken and rub her eyes
only to find that the day is waking up too,
that the sun has just realised that there's art
awaiting him.

One day, my poetry will find her home
before she has to go knocking on the door of Midnight,
asking the latter for "five minutes more"
before she can hurriedly make her bed on my pages.

One day, I will write before it almost midnight.
That day was not today.