Poetry

How much honest you were 
while climbing the stairs, 
to inherit the shame of century, 
invoking the remains? 
A hip will not move for the voidance. 
A notch below, the 
exhumation will prove the Taser 
attack, stunning the history. 
 
Let us sit and take over tea 
under the depressed moon, pondering 
on the nature of man. When 
you reach the top, you become 
a lesser rich. Groping the lonelier 
grief of poverty, I become 
more humane. The water swells 
very often, I see the world 
now by closed eyes. 
 
I walk with my shadow shrunk 
under my feet. I become 
the world.