And even though the pen is mightier than the sword,
I seem to have lost my presence in a grieving combat,
Valuing the occupancy of idle prayers contoured,
Less the guilt of maturing through a cluster of dirty facts.
The world finds me sundry rationales to scream this pain,
Diversifying my wisdom with that of teary remains,
Bickering the thought of justified emancipation
While poetry seems my choice of venom, though hardly sustained,
But just when I approach the closest line of victory
Memories of inane sorrow, these lanes of tomorrow find me astray.