He was in a sorry state of despair

Everyday growing sorrier with disgust

Thinking of his low and filthy life

Soon he would steal than starve

Life felt like a statue whose parts were fit badly

And he deemed himself unworthy of sunlight

He had tried everything that he could

There was no more any art to it

The wrath of god had made him smaller than a vermin

And it forced him to wear that look each day

Malicious eyes accompanying him all over

With something hotter than loath

He walked aimless like a torn piece of paper

Blown through the vast deserts of Egypt

Resignation ringing loudly through his lips

Ignoring his wounded, closed appearance

All he could smell was imaginary food

He would risk everything that day

Even violence or violent death

The resolve ate him up like cholera

He ignored the lingering smear of red sunlight

Even the hordes of rats that sprawled his way

They were trivial in the grand scheme of things

Demanded voraciously in his flow of thoughts


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