Gazing at the dullness in the eyes of the men in the streets
I sit on a window seat in a private bus.
In an emotionless still world of hungry monsters
We do our part, without questioning our purposes.
I see the old, lonely, gluttonous eyes, staring
At my chest, hoping to rinse out the fresh blood of a virgin.
The little child grabs her mother's arms
Terrified of feeling her uncle's hand beneath her clothes.
Undressed by religion, ravished my culture
Victims of pleonexia. Endless thirst for copulation.
We do our part, without asking for answers.
The mother in the settlement touches her son at night
The father thursts inside his daughter.
The old man presses his lips, at gun point.
Praying for the end of the daughter's screams
By masked men, under the naked sky.
We do our part, we close our eyes and walk away.
YOU ARE READING
A Hollow Chest
PoetryThis is a collection of rebelling pieces of poetry. It is a work against conformism. Hope you'll like it. || Complete ||
