By Arsh Raz
I'm writing this note on trust,
With an absence of it within me.
Where 'Me' as a person
Who no longer believes in 'we'.
Maybe he was shot,
By a well-known bow.
And bled the blood of faith,
As in a storm, the winds blow.
That blown wind
has drawn a void in his veins,
Which is slowly filling with
Some judging stains.
But, as it wouldn't be the same again,
So, it doesn't matter how small it is.
Because it's a chronic one,
Not just a cold sneeze.
But in some better place,
He may heal the wound of bow.
Yes, it won't be a ten,
But enough to hide. And show
to the world he belongs,
For the sake of trust:
A virtual string, world believes in,
Until the time it doesn't burst.
By Arsh Raz
Comments