"feudal" poems
70 years of supposed independence
Yet no real freedom for women
In a society dominated by men
Drowned, is a woman's voice
We need Azadi from Patriarchy
Money and power aren't everything
Without love, life is nothing
Above all, are relationships and life quality
Is there no end to ****
Why is marital **** legal?
Our system is so feudal
Marriage is such a shame
Marred by domestic violence
Divorce, a traumatic experience
No freedom to choose her career
Family is supposed to be better
No freedom for inter-religious marriage
If she does, it's labelled Love Jihad
Frankly, we are tired
Demand an end to this carnage
She can dress as she pleases
She can roam at night
She can marry anyone she loves
To question her, you have no right
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 10:15 AM UTC
The legere sacristy of pure love blazing
Feline confluence across ethereal plains
Arched angelic collusion of things sepulchral
The arcane occidere travisty of
Transmogrification canonized
Darkling eminence ordained;
The verity aura of radiance
Twilights tidal blood- dye magenta,
Germane sleek meagre wealth chiming lo!.
Finitudes golden prayer draping flounded
Brutality tithing the zenith with mealy
Doer aptitude majestically turbulent
Sacrificing thoriums weld feudal
Of heavens deceitful soothsayers,
Fellow djinn of Gotterdammerung
Soli of vilest stoic jingoism.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 7:07 AM UTC
473
I am ashamed—I hide—
What right have I—to be a Bride—
So late a Dowerless Girl—
Nowhere to hide my dazzled Face—
No one to teach me that new Grace—
Nor introduce—my Soul—
Me to adorn—How—tell—
Trinket—to make Me beautiful—
Fabrics of Cashmere—
Never a Gown of Dun—more—
Raiment instead—of Pompadour—
For Me—My soul—to wear—
Fingers—to frame my Round Hair
Oval—as Feudal Ladies wore—
Far Fashions—Fair—
Skill to hold my Brow like an Earl—
Plead—like a Whippoorwill—
Prove—like a Pearl—
Then, for Character—
Fashion My Spirit quaint—white—
Quick—like a Liquor—
Gay—like Light—
Bring Me my best Pride—
No more ashamed—
No more to hide—
Meek—let it be—too proud—for Pride—
Baptized—this Day—a Bride—
2.8k
So tired
Back to work and then there's this social event and that social event
and the last one is the best one and I'm still trying to get over not having
last years job that was taken from me and given to you and still
trying not to even think about this because this is a whole new year and
Driving past Napa Valley's Wineries
Hotels, Buses, wine
Everything wine and I don't know where I'm going
My GPS broke, and the directions are drive straight and you'll see it
Suburbia has turned into true wealth
I've gone back in time, wine Haciendas on hill tops
like feudal mansions, waiting for the peasants to do the actual
work of wine, the dirt and the sweat of wine as the owners
twiddle their thumbs and worry about the stock market and their wine
I arrive at my Castle. For a few moments I will be allowed to taste
the lifestyle of the wine and pretend that I too belong in this castle
watching grapes ripen and waiting for the teaming hordes to do my work
and the mechanical wine processors sit idly waiting for the grapes and I feel a tinge of
sadness and fear for the grapes to be processed like in a slaughter house
until I realize they are only fruit, and not mammals
And on the hot deck overlooking the beautiful, silent valley with grapes ripening before
our eyes the only chair left is next to you
I sit down and look to my right and I see the woman who I feared would take my job and now did
and I wonder how it is that this has happened that I've driven for miles in the hot sun
through miles of grapevines only to be made to sit next to you who jealously drooled over
my job and could never say anything good about my work and then you won.
And we talk and I'm very clever and you don't like that because I'm supposed to be stupid
and it's supposed to be obvious why you got the job not me and not some seniority thing
and you say nothing nice, and it's only me keeping up a charade of conversation that
could turn ugly at the drop of a pin but doesn't due to my skill
and you then leave made uncomfortable by the evidence of my continued existence
and lack of dumbness
And it's only later that I realize in my imagination I wanted to hurl you from the deck
and into the wine press
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 12:25 AM UTC
Illegal aliens,
Holy and blameless
Invade from planet dysfunction
Land at our border
From their galaxy of failed Latin states:
Narco-thugocracies
Feudal kleptocracies
Where the girls get knocked up at 15
And illiterate drunks get macheted
on saturday night
Then go to Mass in the morning
as litter blows
through graveyards.
They will enrich us
with their diversity.
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 10:28 AM UTC
Och! Airn an' Thwndir!
An' Urquhart's Wae Verra Hel!
Great Warlike Glamis' Firey,
An' Hwmyd Loch Doon's Orrah!
Downe! Downe! tae thad howch owre miserable!
Ye a' swithe hame, hame! wae ma Airn ***
An' weile 'yont yondir Suthron!
Waefu', waefu' heyre Ah! War-Ironclad heyne Ȝell,
Wae burr-thistle’s Gowlin’ Storne Micht!
Frae ma verra, verra! Ah ageyne!
Tae the Cauld Enraged Wynde
Unco! intae Æternall Battle Scorchin'
Towardis Moorlan Chain Mail-Bosom o' mine!
O'er an' o'er IT! increasingly thro' Force returnin',
Wae ma verra Blacklyn Tartan o' War heyne,
An' Silvery Brooch, wi'in yondir Lone Sceadewe!
Unco! wae the Rubye Stane deep-shimmerin'
Naixt tae Carham's Gory Landis, an' the Targe-Hell,
Thro’ nowe Tune Martial, stick-an-stowe Ȝell!
Airn-Curse Core-Firey, Hye-Flamin' IT!
Heyne unco rychte Airn-Moorlan o'er ye a'!
Ah, bye nowe the FEUDAL OWAR-MANN!
'Yont thad Auld Whunstane Tower-Shrine
Togider wae Lang Titanium-Claymore, Airn-Dazzlin'
An' ne'er, ne'er, IT! stick-an-stowe tae wane!
Wi'in theis Bluish Fyre syne! Verra War-Swaird Rairan IT,
Intae Thae Hringiren Æternall, Thwndir-Devastatin' o' mine!
QVOAD FEODALE MEA CVM RVBRA SPATHA
ET RELVCENTE HOC SCVTO AC FVLMINE NIVEO
SCOTORVM INTRA HANC TEMPESTATEM MAGNAM
QVÆ FLOS IGNEVS EST TONITRVO NOMINE ALTO
NEMO GELIDO HOC LOCO IMPVNE ME LACESSIT.
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 4:42 AM UTC
In the beginning
there is a class
of creatures we call Gods
that much later
we realize are just mono-
instances of god.
From the tower
I babble tongues,
coded messages and ciphers
that you implement
in your daily rituals
and obsessive behaviors.
In R, it's something like,
christ <- god(moral compass)
In Ruby it could be
buddha = God.new
And perhaps a nihilist or we
would find happiness in
10000.times do
pushRock = buhdda.take(me)
end
It's all pidgin for me,
unstructured glimpses at a world
that's moving and changing
faster than my non-existent
grandson can comprehend.
It's all a network
of +1 and like'd
firing mix media,
reinforcing a nascent
thought stream,
back-propagating our legends
and fairy tales, Grimm
reminders of epic Odyssey |
5 Armies in film |
Warring States |
loping dog with a severed hand
in Akira black & white mouth
repossessing Spaghetti Westerns
back into our feudal *****
Fire, firing
into the Monsoon rain.
Always in the Hemingway
rain of symbols and Matrix
green code.
And in my cupped hand,
I catch glimmering fireflies,
instances of Gaiman's
American gods, Tricksters,
Coyotes, and my faithful
Dog smiling at me.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 2:12 PM UTC
Dazzled by
the glamour of robber barons,
a **** fetishist
shills for feudal revival
ambidextrously flogging
bleach-white equestrian bones
eventually dying
a looter's death.
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 6:48 PM UTC
Tea sprouts wildly
by the roadside:
jade splayed fingers
flaming the earth
in warped green flicks.
Mild, astringent,
the aroma drifts
into the
triviality
of the present.
Looking over
my backyard fence
toward the road,
quick, damp-green scent
antiquates my
vision: Eisai,
holding seeds from
Kyoto, hikes
across border
hills into a
feudal Japan.
The tea-lined road,
framed by my
imagination,
is an anachronism,
a snapshot that’s
double-exposed.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
*Today the sky's come down to touch me
Rainy hands it lays all o'er me
Let me then pray to the angels above the earth
Wash me pure for calmness to be
While clouds slyly sneak my plea above
Echoes thunder as the sky claps in approval
Let me then pray to the angels above the earth
Free my mind from the doubts's feudal
Blessed are the angels that came down to see
Why the sky cried on seeing the misery
Of dying hopes in the drought cast hearts
As they answer my plea of sweet victory
Yes! Today the sky's come down to touch me !!*
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
This is no love poem
No love, no art work, no poem
No music nor rhythm
But of images
Of farmers exultant
Though they break their backs,
Or their bones creak,
With every slash of their sickles,
The heavy strokes
Wounding light in the fiery heat of noon,
The gaunt-faced sons of earth,
Bringing home harvests of gold
To the people's granary,
Where no greedy landlords are in sight.
For centuries, the land robbers
Had squeezed their souls dry
In constant toil.
It may be that their time is up.
But this is no love poem
No love, no art work, no poem
But of history
Of workers milling around a lingering twilight.
Pounding their hammers with their might,
Ecstatic at the thought of freedom,
Yet battling still, long dreaded ills
Of feudal ******* barratry,
Imperialism
Storing up for the people’s cause,
Building a new commune in the new place
Freed from the landlord-minded President
From the imperialist ogres
Of IMF-World Bank and Uncle Sam,
The warmongers,
From oppression
And poverty and wretchedness
That, like a python, had wound
Around them to the end.
But this is no love poem
No love, no art work, no poem
No fictive tale but of radiant truth.
As throngs of men
And women march
Out of their homes
With new-found hope,
Gathering strength
As from a blasting storm,
Defiant now of lying saints or heroes
Or of murderer Presidents
Who speak with forked tongues,
As the throng march out into the streets
Flooding the cities,
Ready to offer their lives for freedom
To them would come such happiness,
Such love
No poem would express,
No art suffice to render.
This is no love poem
No piece of art, no song
Only a sense
Of how it is to tell of battles won,
Of folding in to feel the surge of triumph
Though brief perhaps,
Within this flashpoint moment
Of the people's war.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC
Days turn pages
Sinking in the night
Abysmal aromas
Wrinkling skin so light.
Crocheting another blanket
Whimsical notes astir
Falling on the carpet
Bits and pieces of her.
A feudal interruption
White noise begins to blur
Reflections being casted
A comforting allure.
Sons decaying in the sky
Poinsettias set on tomb
Empty syringe on the grass
Dead fetus in the womb.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC
Once across a Caledonia dreary, whose Echo,
Amid the Jötnar, was MAN, I wandered hurt and weary,
Until yon Glare, with deadly Rage flaming,
Lo! I beheld, next to the Iron Gates
Of a long-forgotten Ruin named still
After incorruptible Titanium.
A noble, finely engraved feudal Vest,
Under a Luminary invisible, implacable,
Shone thither with a Glare fiercer, methought,
Than that of the rubies at warlike Valhalla,
Amid Walls time-eaten, kingly Banners, and proud Towers,
And dwelt there in melting Titanium.
Deep memories of martial Woe
Like an arrow piercing my ***** and aimed
Thro' the Night with lethal Glare,
No barrier was there to be found
Between my Past yielding and this conquering Robe
With Runes marked deep in Titanium.
Thus I remembered having once graved,
In revered silence and solitary anger,
Into the Glare, within the Hills, upon the Dust,
The Emblem of the OVERMAN,
Which thou may again now see gleaming,
With pride Superhuman, o'er this garb of Titanium.
My Enemy Wraith haunting me no more,
Into a most profane dying hour,
I walked forth, to wear of the Armour of the Glare the worth,
And felt, intensely, from the Zenith of a most fiery Heaven,
The Rays from the Stars imbuing my Very Gore
With blinding, rageful Titanium.
Hereupon, with Cuirass thus worn, I bethought me of boldly ascending,
With heavy Claymore drawn, in a Guard of the Hawk,
At Ultima Thule, of the Bluish Glare, the Hidden Rock,
And at its scorching Crest, with Blade o'er me flashing, widened my gathering Breast,
The Largest Mirror, the Highest Beacon, aye,
Before the wild Blaze molten down in Titanium.
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 3:12 AM UTC
Here he lies with family
his name and dates given
what other data's wanting
to relive his love and hates
Norman -old English-North Man
Victorian Saxon son
though several times removed
a memory scratched on stone
Or was his bloodline Viking
his longboat in the offing
vicariously fighting
through his seven seas of time
He might have lived much longer
been stronger named for William
ruthless feudal Norman King
but my mind is just dancing.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 6:26 AM UTC
I REFUSE TO LOSE…
Most dudes are confused,
Stuck between the two,
Wondering if the one is really you,
Or if their mind is playing tricks,
So they just never mind, which is a terrible thing to do.
It’s easy to walk away, and just say,
“I’ll try another day”
Or “I’ll try another way”
The answer is right in their face.
Fear of commitment is what it usually boils down to,
Afraid…
Afraid they’ll give you all their trust, just to get played.
But I’m not confused nor afraid,
See, I’m confident in my confidence,
I know that you’re the way.
You’re the path that god has paved,
And I won’t be led astray.
I’m not like those other dudes,
Confused minds have made them fools,
Fear filled hearts have changed their moods,
I’m smarter, so many mistakes, I know, I grew,
It’s altered my personality and my point of view,
On love, relationships and even you,
You see I’m ready to do, what I know have to,
Packed my thoughts, I’m ready to move,
But there is a problem between us being two,
And my love that problem is you.
Still I REFUSE TO LOSE.
Most girls know what to do,
Confident on who to choose,
No hesitation, no interludes,
No deep thinking, it would just prelude
To lose, who they wanted to give all their love to.
It’s easy to say, “We’re meant to be”,
“He’s meant for me”,
And “Just wait, you all will see”,
Or “I do!”, really fast, before the question has been asked.
Fear of loneliness is the problem
When you look inside,
Afraid…
Afraid they’ll be alone for the rest of their lives.
But those girls are nothing like you.
You're unsure what to do,
Indecisive with your decisions.
Your insecurity has you imprisoned,
Steel bars made from your blurred vision,
And you’ll never break the tension.
You’re not like other women,
Your mind is not confined,
It’s just your heart being blind.
You’ve made mistakes but have yet to grow,
Past regrets will stunt your growth,
You have to Learn, Live and Love to make the most,
Throw away those futile, feudal thoughts,
And let me show,
You don’t have to worry
About those problems and mental feuds, When you REFUSE TO LOSE.
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 12:15 AM UTC
I got soul and I am a soldier.
I got soul, and I AM a soldier.
The world, is full of soldiers, some no older;
than ten, learning to use the pen.
Others, grow colder, killing with their swords again.
In the end, regardless of your reasons or weapons,
it would be treason for me to treat these soldiers like peasants.
The feudal lords send us to die on distant shores as though we were ****** bought and sent to supply their wars and satisfy their demands for more,
blood lust.
Human being does not mean mindless killing machine.
The next time a war scene, plays out in the news,
and you hear the same rhapsody about third world violence and blues;
take a moment of silence, to question,
if it was you,
would you take a different direction or stand up to fight for you and your section?
Soldiers come in all ages, shapes, and complexions.
Some use words for weapons, trading carnage for college;
that's why I don't drop bombs, I drop knowledge, and I don't quote psalms, I pay homage,
to the earthly soldiers of humanity fighting the insanity of a planet where they die in wars fueled by greed, fear, and vanity.
Men, women, and children around the globe rally to the banners of Love, Happiness, and Hope,
trying to cope, with the ropes tightening around their throats.
So they turn to the Pope, or the Shah, or the President, or the King,
all draped in their righteous bling,
blissfully ignoring, the mystery,
as to why history's greatest soldiers were common folks who just kept pushing forward.
Jesus, Muhammad, and anyone who survived a nuclear bombing.
Gandhi, King, and the few whites that stood against African-American lynching.
Galileo, Newton, and those that researched in secret to avoid persecution.
Wellington, Eisenhower, and those that died fighting tyranny in the darkest hours.
The true power, of the soldiers of Man, comes when we take a stand fighting for something we demand. Our grand,
struggles and revolutions are led by those fighting for solutions,
by those that may become political executions.
So to those that question me,
I state emphatically,
yes indeed,
no matter race, gender, or creed,
I stand with all the other souls that are soldiers of humanity,
fighting to save our sanity.
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 1:34 PM UTC
The rotten fruit shall be shaken --- W. H. Auden
Do they somehow envision sainthood in the homeless
or extol the virtue of the millions toiling for minimum wage;
see themselves as the feudal overlords of trickle-down,
their enormous profits banquet omelets for the common good?
You know the politics whereof I speak,
the Me, Myself and I of anachronistic yesterdays,
the concave years of soup-kitchens supporting high-rise condos
and batshit crazy presidential candidates admiring selfies.
I wonder if it's all because they can't reach ******
impotence and pharmaceuticals which fuel our economy?
A nation moans from the exhaustion of despair with
forgotten cityscapes of odorous blacks and blues.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
If I start to write a poem, will I finish it this time
Or will I give up midway through, because there aren't enough rhymes
In this old dreadful, awful language born of brutal feudal swine
Wearing wigs and pantaloons, and saying words like 'thee' and 'thine'?
If I have a hazy thought, will I succeed in making clear,
That murky bit of intuition felt, or will it disappear,
The minute I put ink to paper and begin to toy around
With all the scattered bits of insight that implicitly abound?
If I find myself inspired all the sudden by a muse,
Will she hastily retire before I can spread the news
Of all her wondrous gifts to me, that I so luckily did capture
In a transcendental state of exaltation, joy, and rapture?
If I have a vivid vision, flowing freer than the stream
Of a river, clear as crystal, and as dazzling as a dream
Will my will be of such power that I'll succeed to convey
It, or just fall flat in defeat and then retreat into dismay?
If I see sumptuous fruits that hang atop the mighty tree
That's down the road of human intellect and creativity
Will my reach extend sufficiently to gather them and bring
Them back into...into... oh, **** it! I can't think of anything.
(╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 7:03 AM UTC
Cannibalistic are the teeth jagged in curl and grin. They grip fastened between gums of grime and sin. They prey leeched to toys strung under webs so few. My fingers creeped between their eyes so suffice and blind.
Like storms choked in stark sky and drying rain, my views christen and bloom. Eyes bleached gold, lavish the corners donning streets and side shop. I myself lark on apartment edges and strewn roof tops, balancing death and door bells along my crooked spine. Wide faces swirl in faded lights along morbid streets blazed in night. They the oh so happy and innocent leech the drinks and sway the narcotics. Hand on breath, tongue on tip. It’s so heart full to stare from the roofs so grimaced.
All words muddled in dread, lick their rosy lips, as stare catches the late night shift. All the blossomed couples curl and constrict in arms so selfish I must keep edges sharp and dull in bliss. Balance sways in dim, darkest are the days flattering night and cursing day. I wait amongst the walls above wavering innocence to demand. I shift on roofs so frail and wary that life seeks no bounds as the heights do not scare me. I will slip feudal in their creviced minds, but merely of pity to all their credible crimes. Here the world cries and here the cannibal lies. I break to be broken, but never to die, only to fall within the world’s eye.
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 12:01 AM UTC
Tropic and toxic
glasses full of Soviet enterprise
very expensive
blood diamonds and muddy bricks
thrown into the street
raining jujubees and tongue twisters
oh mister, let me tell you
a story
that time
it was true, I do not kid
and the knights of the feudal manor had no manners
at all
heads of tin
bellies of yummy, gummy
gruel
their disgust spread like the plague
all a mind sickness
slithery what-you-have-its
all up in their
phases of the moons,
too many to properly attest to
not very good questions,
unfair
studying never helps the potential
obscurity in life's energy
pouring through airducts
blocking chances of survival
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 9:37 PM UTC
twofist head muscle: kineval.
but really iz jus 2:15
shoelacegazing in a prefab park gazebo.
texty fingertip slinger.
chase that dragon.
kickin fake jordans
in a tomb called Khufu
diffuse serial NOONSDAY scenario:
always
cut
the
pixelated
rainbow
wire.
yuh know, that
jejune
box
hero:
from alphabet soup news to
netfizzle huludoodoo,
twiddling its Neros.
V iz for silent
in the actual voodoo
that’s been silenced
with dogooder silencer.
blap.
blargh.
this is all so
hashtagical.
prolly. so
follow me.
anyway resistance is feudal, ‘cause
evil doth hearts a good fight.
“evolve?! nevar!”
quoth the flat noted, dorsal
Dept. of Unkindness
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
The love that rose on stronger wings,
Unpalsied when he met with Death,
Is comrade of the lesser faith
That sees the course of human things.
No doubt vast eddies in the flood
Of onward time shall yet be made,
And throned races may degrade;
Yet O ye mysteries of good,
Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear,
If all your office had to do
With old results that look like new;
If this were all your mission here,
To draw, to sheathe a useless sword,
To fool the crowd with glorious lies,
To cleave a creed in sects and cries,
To change the bearing of a word,
To shift an arbitrary power,
To cramp the student at his desk,
To make old bareness picturesque
And tuft with grass a feudal tower;
Why then my scorn might well descend
On you and yours. I see in part
That all, as in some piece of art,
Is toil cooperant to an end.
1.2k
Like God amassing gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh,
vain potentates, possessed by pride that riches will confer,
depleted pillaged villages in pagan days of old…
With *********** privileges, their fortunes were foretold.
In feudal times, chaste clerics, cloaked, wrapped rings around the mind
with hymns of magic, mystic myths and figurines enshrined,
while blessing bayonet-like blades that mutilate and maim…
With *********** privileges, believers bore no blame.
In search of caramel colonies, some sailors set their sails
to conquer puppet provinces, for sovereignty prevails,
purloining wicked treasure troves which others claimed their own…
With *********** privileges, such sins sustained the throne.
Well, nowadays the quest proceeds, this time for ebon oil,
so peoples once again are caught within the serpent’s coil
and, pierced by fangs of greed and lust, death yields benign escape…
With *********** privileges, you’re free to rip and ****
We wave the flags and beat the drums and often kneel to pray
to glorify our victories, bold, that happen far away;
but none salute the severed souls impaled upon a pike…
With *********** privileges, the riffraff look alike.
One day the moguls won’t agree on how to slice the pie;
they’ll spit and spat and, tit-for-tat, atomic barbs will fly -
but when the button’s finally pressed, they too will grace the heap…
With *********** privileges, the hole that’s hewn is deep.
Apr 20, 2021
Apr 20, 2021 at 5:13 PM UTC
shards of glass lay scattered,
your hands bore gory deeds of the night,
a sinister feeling lay inside,
yet I chose to hold on.
drunken revelry' now a massacre, of
the self and soul, both washed ashore
words now trembled, too afraid to
spring, chose to perish,
for what might befall.
the quill was an ally, now a foe,
the ink too dry to leave an imprint upon.
Amidst the surrender of self, everything
else gave away, but
thoughts to rebel, still found a way.
refused to concede to a feudal lord.
Maybe they'll liberate my broken soul,
or maybe,
one day, they too shall surrender to my feudal lord.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 5:34 AM UTC
The New year 2013, in trepidation slips faintly;
head-long in India while it bleeds shockingly. .
The patient Sea awaits its souls rained rudely.
while somebody blocks their brooks brutally.
Poor parents awaits nurses as patients patiently
for nurses to nurse ere their pulse falls abruptly.
For thirteen days we forgot the feudal FDI fully
Our M.Ps’ empathy poured in media profusely.
“Thirteen” an accursed number mourns lowly
holding high the news of **** or hope crudely
News of corruptions and the corrupted partly
merge or submerge in clamour in vain freely.
The reckless leads a life carefree fearlessly
And they glide in politics scot-free wryly
Pharaohs wield the power to save and to ****
Challenging God’s sole unique authority, still.
The twinkling starry eyes, of my darling, fill
In me Calm Nature’s emerald hope and Will.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 4:52 AM UTC