Posted: August 17, 2016 in emotions
Tags: , ,

The Children of no one

As the faints of dusk grows, the neon and hazel lit,
Those dying orange of the sky, the bubble moon standing by.
Rises from wrecked damp houses, the critters of unknown.
Their heads like tiny bulb and clumps of brown dirty hair.
Battered faces, those sparkling eyes in the infected lair.

Call them rotten degrade, born lone, the mistake of trade.
While they hunt for garbage cans, their mother lay in moan.
Hormones pulsing hard, this city of mannered wolves.
They come, they pay and lay. Skin sold cheap here, who cares
Next day, another day, people change, moans stays.

The lovely trinkets at the city fair, the pink & blue balloons.
They sell, their voice so meek and frail, of hunger and despair.
And when the city sleeps, they shivers in the traces of fire
The homes they have, is of trade, of passion, lust and desire.

Next morning they rise and wipe the ashes of their clothes.
Muddy tea and a bun, they are ready for the day.
The work at cleaners, the gutters and garages. They earn.
Their Mothers sold in market, for father they never yearn.

The houses all infected, the diseases, sweat and sore
Few die of killing sickness, few live to witness more.
Their eyes all sunk in bones, the smiles they never saw
And the lives of such hollowness, all it does is grow.

The tiny breathing puppets, a mere ghost in existence,
They are story of survival, ignorance and persistence
In brothel all their lives, their mother in a money run
Carved out of a night’s trade, they were born to no one.

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