Chariot Waits the Flame To Douse
with the tilt of the head,
and a heart so heavy...
he sits on the floor of his home,
thinking every moment about his capital levy...
for there are days,
with nothing to pass the time,
the god himself is staying so long,
and the dryness has dried the pond's slime...
the particles of the dust ready to enter the skin,
with the skin showcasing designer patches,
they never bothered playing in the dust,
roaming around with the deep itchy scratches...
there's no fire,
not a dime for the mere matchstick,
the dampness is breaking the strength,
And so is breaking the house's every brick…
still, they live, they live like mopes,
carrying a soul, with the least of their hopes,
for they believe, a chariot might come to take everyone in their house,
until then they will wait, and they will not let their flames douse…
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