The Rope
He grows the seed destined to be the feed
But it dupes him sans any heed
Amidst all the unwanted weeds
He plays with the tree with thoughts of being forever free
By cornering away all his conundrums
Which he earlier masked with cheap and costly rum
Little does he know he is on the way of becoming one
By accompanying the end of his child’s fun
After the rendezvous with the noose
he manages a segment of the prepped-up morning booze
The kings in their gilded castles mourn their loss of food
Whilst removing their bejeweled hoods
He dreamed his child would be rich
His land not to be a filthy witch
But in the future, there are only rags
and stitches or the rope filled with glitches
Loop of such lives is endless
Troop of fat pursed kings relentless
Scoop of mornings tasteless
To burn the rope seems baseless.
Copyright © Mrimon Guha | Year Posted 2018
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