Win Over Poem by Naveed Akram

It was regular as clockwork,
Opening the pages of a volume of print,
Licking the paper of old and ancient times
That swayed and swung from corner to corner.
This blue, violet film regarded me
With suspicion as my criminal past
Superseded everything that was basic.
The thoughts of a season laid a net
To catch the authors of a brilliance
At the other end of the world;
Seas burned the oiled men,
The lands ceased,
Occupations were coming to no avail,
The birds of the sky sat at the beach
To reach a dying reason, the deaths
Of a man were so small that dying
Was an aspect best left to the living,
Who created a sport to win over mud.