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
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.