The Son

My liars are even on my brow
Where my eyes are situated.
I see their glaring and staring
When soft and hard collide.
The sight of a candle and cupboard
Appears in my mind,
But it is really there in my room,
My very bedroom, breathing is good.
I ride my body into this considerable sight,
The world is my son of course.
The liars of my sight are like nations
In my world, the son of joy and sleep.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!