It was on that
blue Saturday evening
on a small wooden desk
where I am leaning,
When I received
the notice to head home.
They told me to be safe,
Plague’s only an epitome.
With overwhelming solicitude,
they spoke further,
to confine ourselves
and not wander.
Now, why are we here
on the corners of our appeals,
crocked with manifold
of constraining deals?
They aren’t deaf
but they cannot hear.
The louder our plea,
the stronger the shear.
Spare our lives,
on this gloomy scene of pandemic.
We aren’t infected,
Hypocrisies made us sick.
These bushels
aren’t furnishing our necessities.
Meddled among us
and our priorities.
We thought they are with us
on these morbid days.
They gave us yellow mellows
as well as squeezing greys.
YOU ARE READING
The Flyleaf
Поэзия"Poetry is the aesthetic translation of the world's dynamism." Here is a collection of poems in random subjects. Enjoy! 💕
