Tattered

The tattered man had a tone of repetition,
With his speech the direct conversation flowed.
He regarded the awakening as a joining of hands,
The ground received a rude call from his hands.
To desire youth is to brood over thanks,
We are tattered in respects and in sights;
The pardoning of a cleric is required
By the insane and afflicted.
Pointing at shadows the clerics marvel
At God’s creation for it goes into the ground.
Wave your head and arms together
When the tight feelings craze you.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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