a poem by Naveed Khalid, Pakistan

Our poor economy, struggle between classes,
and the school of thought; all amount to nothing,
not a penny counts, full of empty pockets,
a fight o'er 'Ruskin's Unto This Last',
that in exchange of words, 'he threw me against the picture
with such (subtle) violence that I broke the glass
with the back of my head; and the imprint of that image,
is still viewed as a masterly work of my Father's blood in veins,
which when through the painted roses, not yet grew to light,
I look at my poor lot, and love in heavenly clothing,
upon the wall of brittle clay, falling, falling...
breaking, breaking...our hearts forever!

(C) Naveed Khalid

Copy Rights (C) 2012.
All Rights Reserved.

Date Created: Sunday, December 16,2012 7: 03: 51 PM

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