The conceited cackle of green-eyes
murmur deep with their stabs
Laughing is no longer a melody
It has become a selling point
of cries and severed human ties
I'd see flamboyance in an old man with    
cracked maroon lips,purple-yellow
shades of shame in his shut lids
Too shut perhaps from the sneers that keep them down.

The all too used ****** frills hampered droopily atop the bones that kissed
icebergs of words from those who
make him not matter.
One more avalanche
and the prop heeled identity
from which he stands will bring him
down along with the world who refused.

And yet I see his ghost in my periphery
As I watched the parodied tragedies plastered with the loneliest
Faces on them. Bam!Boom! They
rot in dumps, in alleys, in late night lonely strolls revelled with crimson crimes on their arms
And unsaid dying messages about culprits Found but never tried.

And those images they
keep coming back, like prodigal sons asking for
second chances,asking for the
slight nick of eye, a slant of faith
a bread of compassion
For the ****** that they are.
But the forgiver is society and has it forgiven?
And has it thought that it
is not afterall the forgiver?
But the retriever
Of all things lost
The start for
all things to be accepted?