Poem Hunter
Road In The Morning
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Road In The Morning

The sound of carts is not yet dead
Upon the tar coated road of the town;
That lies like a dead snake since my childhood;

They say it lives forever and eat
Grease and diesel direct from wheels;
Nothing is new in this town except the snake;

In the rain it wakes up polished
Ready to slither like a long breath;
It coils and falls around the neck of a turning;

Windows are opened one to let
The dead air inside as vendors fall
Asleep over heaps of vegetables with flies;

The beggars have proved that
There is always a chance to survive
As they clap in half hands for a few coins;

Like suppurating sores they
Hold seats by the side of the road
Feeling the cold tar with their underbellies.

User Rating: 5,0 / 5 ( 1 votes ) 1

Comments (1)

In rain this seen beautifully and perceived. Feeling the cold tar with their underbellies provokes thought. Poverty brings agony in observation. Sound of carts is not dead. An amazing poem is shared here.10