The Stinging Of Wasps
The wasps of us are riding a ghost train,
These phantoms of the night have now expired;
The wasps offer their pangs, and we steal
The throws of the dice as we play some dungeon
Deep down inside, like the dungeons of the old name.
These eccentric wasps are fleeing to the other end,
Lifting their wings and desperately flinging
A little tail to the terrors of the day that beams on us
With rays that sting as well.
I hate the wasps that enter the arena, full of it.
The asses are people you know, flicking their tails
Like any donkey with slices of skin that shimmer,
These beasts of burden lift me higher than camels
In the desert of such highness, this highness shines forth
Forever more, like the idiocy of a day that heats us from within.
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Comments about this poem (The Stinging Of Wasps by Naveed Akram )
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