As we awoke to the breeze in June
And the wind touched our open sore
Reflection belled our nothingness: we got flour
So we perched here to commune
Our squalid life like an unuttered spell
Cast on a wrecked sore to forever smell
Messaged our status quo
To flies to lick the fluid from the sore that flowed
Various aims yet shaped, unshaped
Left wretched uncared for
On a burning sun like a mad man's sore
Useless, variegated, weather-swayed
This uppity wherein our rulers dwelled
Many at 50 unto our pity
And the hands of frivolities that hijacked our progress
So more woebegone was our sore in this higgledy-piggledy
But one morning hot in November
When we awoke our home unto new salvation
Our souls and lives may ever veer from neglect
When we changed words for us to remember
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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