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Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Of The Plagues

Noisome fears last of the plagues,
But gems are stored from the bogs;
Our boots roll like bags on a summer,
This winter we seem like a hummer
Of music and we are the customs
Of that music like the victims.
Letters righteously acquire the pasts,
Words tangle and mangle with contrasts.
Lending to the drama, and stealing from this
Justifies the letters of the lovers amiss.
This abyss strikes at the ruins of castles,
Loathing the mentality of the vassals.
My seemingly hideous task has erupted
To display the lists of those who attempted.
Noisome fears last of the plagues,
But where are the gems to be placed in the bogs?
Naveed Akram
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