She is dead long before she took her life
she no longer breath, they suffocated her with arrogance
callousness have bruised her mind
They tied her hands and tortured her with the thought of discontinuance
They pierce her heart with jagged words like "forced leave of absence"
No it wasn't suicide
She was dead when she was born
It was just her apparition
and "Hoping", is just another suicide

There lies on the pavement
a heap of flesh unperturbed
mouth widely agape
two eyes stare blankly to the noon sun
the naked body immune from
the scalding hot asphalt
while flies buzzed like vultures
sensing death, anticipating it
Soon now, the body whispered
as if begging death to come
or to end its slow parade
poverty's gauntlet of pain
there is no pain now
the body seized to recognize it
a long time ago
there are now only scars
of half deluded questions
a mirage of lofty thoughts
justice, compassion, humanity
which are also dying
the sun hid behind the dark clouds
feet scuttle about
the noise escalates and rapidly flew
and the staccato of rain drops
filled the air as if announcing
death is not coming today
and the body cried

there is this, an unrecognizable feeling
like a question wanting to be asked
but anxious of the answers
a longing, a wanting a solitude refusing to be broken
but expresses itself stubbornly
usurping the moment
a rigor mortis and a birth
colliding and infusing
dividing and dispersing
a coil winded
both urgent and passive
past and becoming
entangled on an intention