They fell us, down with impunity
trivially, like the shelling of melon seeds
We, are transmuted to cannon fodder
from unending blood letting
by them, armed with devices from
the evil bowels of Soviet technology
Morbid joy is derived in place of
compunction
by mind ripping black scorpions
deployed In the dark.
With the ignominious silence from the top
and their sting, little hope of survival left.
Has the locust invaded our farm steads
To devour the sprouting greens of this land?
Heart palpitates at the prospect
Of leaving the comfort of one’s bed
Only to end up wrapped in white sheets
With a bullet hole to the head!
YOU ARE READING
Black Lines on White Parchment
PoetryDelve into a collection of motley poems ranging from politics to nature and the society at large. A spontaneous flow of rich emotions compacted into lines and verses. P.S still a work in progress😊🖋🖌
