The more you sleep

The less you achieve.

The more you joke

The less you Know

Don't play and eat

Enjoying poverty

The aroma and tantalizing smell of the gutter

What an irony of life!

We adopt poverty

Like an infant who agree

To suck from her mother's breast

Without an option

What an ill-luck 

Our dead have prepared

a well ventilated land 

believing no more agony,

pain, perplexity

And no more dilemma in the land

Woo to the land

Who turn the ready made work to the dust at dusk

Worthy is the work

performed by the ancestors

just to enable happiness for the fotus

© ONEIRIC

 The gods of poems 

have descended upon me

And my stomach cannot take it any longer

The strength it possesses

over me is over weighting me

And the headache is beyond measure

The heavens of poem is pregnant 

And was in serious pain of labour

Where is the delivery going to be

Without any sequitur

The gods of poem are ruminating 

Restless is their soul

For their sacrifice are yet to be completed

The inspiration of poem is reducing

The people are not giving

what it takes to illuminate on it

Learn wide to conceive a greater knowledge

What you eat is what you ruminate on

And also what you digest

©ONEIRIC