Ah it sits there, bold as brass.
The rat in its element,
picking at the flesh that
sustains him. Oh scavenger!
Do you take pleasure in the
shackles placed on his hands?
Is the prospect of easy prey
appealing to you?
Your shrill screams of insults
are only to be echoed.
The fault is not his own.
You scream silence at him,
your foul reddened nose
twitching and your absurd
grey tartan fur
bristling as you rile yourself up.
As with clothes, you shed
your feelings, almost snakelike.
But you are not majestic, your
blood, when shed, runs deep, deep red.
This is why you're an outcast, no friends
apart from those who will sip
from the same vein.
Fault is with the nature not with the creature. good poem. thanks. I invite you to read my poems and comment.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
liked your lines.............. come and read my poems and give me your veiws on them.thanks