Treasure Island

Praveen Kumar In Shobha Priya


154. THUGS


The rag gang of legal thugs,
Boisterous bed-bugs,
Alas, as police,
Creep on the clean world as vice,
Of all, to roll the rule of law,
For all, but them!
For all, but them,
Who, from outer space,
In vacuum of insight's sunshine or good fence
Or pride or reasons' hold,
Sweep the good old world,
Like mad mafia dons
Whack innocence all round
For the sake of bad belly.

The shady owls shun sun-lights,
The blind bats hang like ghosts
On barren branches of waste human fossils;
For, they fear light in any form,
For, they hear threats from inner light
That tinds rare fire
In the hearth of conscience
That resolves to gray ash of repentance,
The witless past and spineless presence;
They live in ignorant holes of complacence
Like rotten rats,
Oblivious of heights or depths outside
And strengths of sprite;
But, ready to shun sunshine anywhere.

The dirk packs of life bounce
With vile spikes of intrigues and pounce
On rare, proud liberated souls
That come out of sickly choky holes
To force to conform to infirmity;
For, instinct to mass crass survival
Binds in force all police ranks;
They wait and wag like dogs
Or bark and bite like dogs
On merits of leash you hold,
Or the bits of bread loaves in hand,
But, treat not a man like man,
Nor a law as law,
Nor heart nor cerebrum concern them;
Lo, an intruder!
They flock like hungry wolves,
Tear him apart and gorge to nought.

They are stupid sand bags,
Drained of wet emotions inside,
No dints, heavy weight, waste bulks;
They act in violent rattles of spasms
Like a broken diesel engine;
They rifle through crime world
To squeeze out benefits from lawless land;
Yet, not all so bad,
Gold dusts do hide in wads of earth
As rare isolated sparkles;
Wherefore the straw-ball rolls yet
Along the woof 'neath the net
Of a credible force.

Submitted: Thursday, March 11, 2010
Edited: Friday, November 01, 2013

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