A God

A god was about, fully moving,
Leaning on a stick for the movement one day.
Tonight He worked, higher than anyone,
With a mind to reset, to accumulate acumen.
May the gods all be damned for their work,
The real manner of our young lings is grave,
Their very graves spat on, fought on by the gods.
The movement is splendid, futures are blessed,
Forcing our real manners forever and ever.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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