Brown Bag
Brown and blotched the bag marred our running
Of appearance, the very present we conserved with our running.
I kept back from you the very day we took the accident,
Aimless searching could not find us preserved and running.
This fastened knot would not untie, just as nerves bleat,
And they never sleep for their activities served, all running.
One man’s brain whines and cries and bleats forcefully,
As its eyes are near seeing, and they have observed, always running.
This day I connect the legs to my torso, this dear old pain
Wishing my body asleep, kept always curved, anyway running.
May months clarify not fail just as disasters beat the body
Like a flogging instrument of death undeserved, then running.
How did aliens fight our bags, ours heads and the backs
That accept the capture from the soul we reserved as running?
My pain is long, far too many miles, in the concrete heart,
Where solutions lie as a victim, and we are nerved with running.
Pleasing and questioning are far too good a pair, of hearts,
That beat continuously like arrows that swerved, on running.
May ache of the age compel the soul to define what lies in the yearning,
My names are few from the bag all-marred unserved, with my own running.
poem by Naveed Akram
Added by Poetry Lover
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