Beneath the peasant's heart,
A doubt lies,
The festering brutality,
That life gives,
Drains his hope,
Though he lives,
Life has nothing to offer,
Scoffers haunt him,
Trying to devour his straight ways,
Now he's crooked,
Dreadfully haunted by his conscience,
Poignant memories of the past,
Reminiscent of humility,
Now a stranger to him,
Winnowed like chuff,
With the passing of time,
But still tantalized,
By the abyssal secret.
YOU ARE READING
THE BOY ON THE BRIDGE.
PoetryThe weakest ink harbors the strongest minds. A collection of thoughts that will blow your mind. Some emotions laced herein are quirky, any similarity to real characters is just a mere coincidence*
