A Piece Of Clay.
The world is a broken piece of brown clay;
It leaves us to cold, us to fires to stay.
And when lips could depict; tis hard to say:
It's not easy to find the words to say.
The land is a hungry Lion, roaring
in his den, feathers flutter high, hiding
from his calmness, those with their gut sleeping
retires to bed from aimless wants– strolling.
The sky is a poisoned spade, piercing through
the soul of the space with the chirping boo
of the wings, their nest were no home but-a shoe
that has the heart in wait of death's ado.
The mighty ones then fall to the still sea,
The coward ones now hold breaths with a plea.
For such a day will come to hear our plea–
And such a day will come to see us plea.
"words from the innocent mind"