On an evening dance show I wasted a ciggerate on thoughts
The light shimmered on the ball,
The music was new, all the songs were turned into stew
A soup of melody and a constant beat
Trembling the floor and the ceiling~
I gazed upon the upcoming crowd
"A beer" They crooned.
The ancient smell of ***** and liquor gassed up the entire floor.
The ciggerate, it burned too loud, and the poet was not allowed,
Saddned by the echoes of silence in a room full of noise, I left the premise with nothing but nicotine stains and words without sentences.
~
The ladies,  cursed by design
The men, manipulating the minds
The children, running to hide.
Where are the people who once promised a dinner?
Where are the shackles of chains that were
Left unattended to the working class?
-
I saw him throw the trash at the
river that sprung from a feet of a cow.
Vrishabhavathi, she cries.
A symphony of dead plastics and living garbages.
Decorated by the lush pink trees
With the smell of rotting cabbages.
-
Did they bring more people to build a holy land?
Did they fight communists holding flowers in their hands?
Were there people overlooking the waters filled with foam?
The forests filled with food packets and rotting homes
-
If a tree fell in a forest. Would you **** me?
This way?