The Foul

The foul was in for prison,
My utterances condemn your pleasures,
Attacked, bitten and arranged to die,
Yes, our prize is working on poison
As where I land is wondered to represent
A decree tonight.
I appreciate a crying act, to excommunicate
Him,
To be master, and maiden, and monster of the planets
That cry with water and wit.
The foul I have committed is born from the death
Of a master, and a tear has fallen because of this.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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