no, no,
It is not a marketable prose,
Nor a sellable woes,
Dammit its a cry,
You see,
It's a room where the guests
continue to brush the walls
To seek for the light switch
You see,
Its a labyrinth where the visitors
continue to delve each corner
to find the only egress
You see,
Sometimes its a tormented piece
Out of slashes and whips
By a reader thirst of exegeses
You see,
Sometimes its from who bleed,
Or maybe from greed,
Yet it still hold that role,
To be felt by soul.
