Hair stranded head
of a scribbler,
Loses counts of
her populations
To the market
of crowdy alphabets,
Words, phrases, and clauses
Walking aim-fully
to be bought
by the ink
of a bard.
For the pleasure
of those
who appreciate the works of thought,
He works wordy arithemetics
To derive facts from fiction.
He becomes mad;
Seeing pictures of unpainted images
That knocks down his reasonings,
Hoping that dreams will take him
To the states his words had conquered.
For the sake of art
He learns the martial
To war against self and
Rebuke the ninch of a collapsing country
He, with words, plaster(s)
The shame of a dying nation
And mould pride for wingless eagles
He is indeed mad
For after all this torture,
His work is a rag
Neophytes see as Joblessness
Tagging with a miserable name
of a creative Pauper.
Like the baby of Betlehem,
We spit on him!
But, shakelessly firm he stands
Because he is living his dreams!
© tohquality.
