My Loaf

Then we strive for a living too perfect,
How angered God constructs the lesions
Of your brain, innards are intact for the life.
Loaves of bread ingested will give output,
My outing resides in my head, with a foul;
The picnic is of course a picked loaf
From the parlour of discontent.
The religion surrenders with a people
Always governed by the authorities of God.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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