Prose Poetry

Living Dead

What in life, is beautiful to you? I have always asked myself the same question. Only to find answers in long sighs and heavy breaths, and feel my hands on my neck, trying to choke the ill thoughts, that made me the shadow of my former self… on days like this.

Don’t blame me, blame nature for giving every man the liberty to dream at will. I was born where ends don’t meet like a parallel line. Where we address the Creator like a formal letter, and ‘faith’ fully end our messages. But like Jesus’ second coming, we await our triumph.

We are the children of the street whose fathers were the leaders of tomorrow. I live where the future holds no water to wet our dying dreams. Right before our eyes, our day dreams turn to nightmares and haunt us every night, pouncing on the emptiness of our stomachs, making us wanderers in our state of mind.

Our mother’s land has no place for us. We are the outcasts of every society and the hope of a dying world. Dream is an expensive commodity, we don’t buy such here.

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