A Late Soul Poem by Naveed Akram

A late morose order was proclaimed
By the pelting men, who swung their hips
And sandwiched true genius with iron force.

The rest of a thousand men is penniless,
It concentrates on the godly work of the day,
It dies and flies in the face of fortune that binds.

A flower is all we sense with our thoughts,
Philosophers dine on this journey of the soul,
It combines the orders of a celebratory day and night.