The Racist Poem by nithya raghavan

Walking on the silent streets,
of a deserted town,
i feel the searing, hot,
iron rod, placed on,
my skin which is in the,
colour of a wet soil,
i feel my bruises,
reflecting the war at the purple sky,
as i wade my way,
into the hospital doors,
The anarchist withing me,
pulls the strings of a guitar,
swallowing loud speakers,
she blares out,
to the indifferent world,
minding its own business,
on the struggle of her life,
everyone's life, where wearing,
a skin which is,
in the colour of black tea,
is considered a 'disgrace',
as the world scatters around,
like flakes of snow,
on their chase to find,
the racist and pour,
wine over his ritual,
of roasting all the skins by fire.......