Starving Soul

That pasturage of penury,
Where scant is the grass of life,
Inadequate for every soul to graze,
That passes by this precinct,
Of insatiable souls,
Is my eternal abode,
The more I feed on this grass,
 Herculean grows my craving,
I never get enough of ‘’life’’,
To surfeit my perpetual yearning,
My hollow incarnate is starving to death,
For I am tired of being a parsimonious cannibal,
 Or an Ideological philanthropist,
 Or a benevolent butcher who feeds himself to eat his own carcass,
 I lick, I spit and lick back again,
 Apparently lifeless cells are turning into syllogistic brains;
 Swathed in blood of Pharaoh,
 or a fallen angel gluttonous of life…
 Let my silence sing amongst death valleys of million meters high,
 Let this hoggish wish of breath no more survives…

The poem is a joint work of my dear friend Iqra Hassan and Paras Ali/2016.