A Living Corpse

A Living Corpse

What is this place;
Where cowardice, guilt, panic, regret,
Dance around merrily, mockingly
And in crimes he abet.

An essence of darkness
Difficult to erase
Maniacally cackling,
Awaiting his disgrace.

A broken grin, eerie
Those bloodshot, watery eyes
Preparing graves of innocent victims
That deserves nothing but despise.

A living corpse branded
By Islamic State terrorist outfits
Comfortable amongst this circus of an illusion
There isn’t any sin he didn’t commit..?

There used to be a faint echo,
Sometimes moments of blissful peace
Solemn intricate, deathly silence
From infant’s play and man’s

The mess he’s made of his life
A million screams, a million curses
A tortured soul, miserably crying
Severed. Shattered. Burning like a furnace.

Sirens. Media. Paramedics.
A convoluted laugh escapes from pursed lips
What is this place? Cold…yet clear
A miscalculation ushering in an apocalypse.


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