In the wilds of my dungeon
My feet sprawled on the cold ground
And my devilish fever
Eats me to my heart
My throat arid like the desert
With pure obsession for water
Saline water
to calm the anger of my hunger
The distaste, discomfort that i live
I curse no God, perhaps no God exist
But my suffering
For fruits that yield not on trees
Or trees that yield not fruits
Is of whose making?
If and when we would decide to read poetry or a piece of discerning article a day, our world is, then headed for a change. No magic potion whatsoever: if there were, politicians would have used it a long time ago. Our mind is all that we have; the only exception to tricks of all corners and angles. Enjoy the luxury and peace of poetry...
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