My Habits

The habit we seek in white is joining me,
Identify me with the aid of this habit;
Teeth are struck from afar, like a speedy ghost,
Colours speak, and blood arrives and splatters.
My habit turned out to be distasteful,
As a carcass I was found, and on the floor.
Very old age struck me afterwards,
Inner habits were developed for the keeping of love.
The habit in white was a pretty flower
Plucked by everybody, plucked and upset.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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