On the dot at nine O Clock
The spurious claimant walks past
What a strange behaviour
From one who said and claimed, the worst
Of those who did nothing except show an extra kindness
Does he go to revisit the place of the crime
Like a criminal that he is, does he go to gloat
Buoyed by the destruction that he wrecked
Or does he go to bait those that he accused
That when they holler and rebuke
That man in a suit,
Who looks like he would not hurt a feather
Then he would have them sent down
For malicious communication
What a stupid reason
For a force full of corruption
We do not need to rebuke him
Nor hurl obscenities
For the lie is on him
He is his own destruction.
Those who auger ill
Ill will they have
This is true no matter, who
Each makes their own truth
And his is a base lie
That belongs to none but himself
Let him sleep not easy,
Nor know any comfort
Until judgement day.
END
Shafees Nov 2021
Off course when the feeling is raw, you write from the heart.
ReplyDeleteAnd though the feeling might ebb, the work that you do then, should stand the test of time.
It should not be allowed to vanish, or be airbrushed out of your life. Because it is a testament to what you felt then.
This is the beauty of poetry that it allows you to get things out, put them in black ‘n white and then scrutinise them.
It is simply a relief.
And a beautiful relief at that.