13 Mayhem Street
A few meters from me is a man
on the breadline; secluded; a beggar—
with his cluttered suit and long parched hair—
add to that a greasy hand
beseeching silvers from the people
wryly staring at him
(at the life he didn’t choose) as they pass by;
but no one seemed to mind.
At the other flank of the street is a soul—
murdered; guillotined; a victim—
amid her blood-smeared gown
she has been sauntering back and forth:
pleading for justice
(and perhaps searching for her head);
but how could people help out,
they couldn’t notice her.
Above me is a bird—
homeless; ravenous; a sufferer
of men’s egotistical doings.
Now he has nowhere to go—
no trees to put up a nest;
(and possibly, no bird of the same feather);
and a breeze of infected air—
all because no one seemed to care.
As the day turned into night—
uplifted; inspired; a noble man I became,
by these enormous stories I witnessed
that only few are able to see.