The Philosophy Behind It Poem by Naveed Akram

His strength is the soul, so I wait and transform into a werewolf,
My mighty blow carries hurt and pain like the avenue of thought.
It stains an enemy with swift bursting sorriness, the spiritual one
Bespeaks, thus it messes the spine with the brain and wanders.
My wolf is haired almost to the torso, it is my wolverine or wolf?
It is my werewolf that dares to speak according to customs of yours,
With aggressive states and vulgar expressions so boastful and strong.

My strength must be the soldier of me, I see his talented head,
He has been and deeds issue from the throat, like vomit and hell.
The obvious spin of work condemns all sight, the audience is aghast
Like vanished banshees, the werewolf is here with a share in slaughter.
The crowd is about, without the creation of assortments, and refreshments,
For the soldiers of time are again the answers to human questions,
Of these some create a cancellation of the wonders of this our unity.