This is not a poem
This is a tale of days when the heavy clouds leak over my roof and my friend-sleep is late for duty keeping my eyes wandering, building scenes and crumbling them by each blink they make
This is my fingers marrying words dancing in my head on a page
Painting them in ponderous harmony intermingling into beautiful colonies
This is a reflection of silent footsteps of thoughts treading the endless corridors of my mind
No, this is not a poem
This is a myth of mothers embracing the carcass of their children in pain
Holding unto all that rains from the clouds of reality
This is a dirge sang beyond borders
Of nights that harbour paradigms of gloom
Of tales of lust crawling through our minds reflecting pictures of leaders with kleptomaniac hands feeding on our sweats
This is a mirror of scars on the skin of poor orphans hoarding memories of their lost homes
With their sorrows merged into the feigned smiles they wear
This is a fragment of our society crumbled by pride, retarded by greed and ruled in ruins
This is the groan of the women fed with angry blows by hardened men
Swallowed in the web of agony
Hungry beggars flooding the streets deafened by the loud siren of the elites
This is you and I, moulded chassis from the dust vomiting on the sands of the earth an imprint of our minds, unleashing the venom of our passions and erecting an attic of our dreams
Hold on, this is not a poem
This is a better metaphor which is life.