Poetry

Faith was not taking him
near the truth.
Staring at reason
his inner self became a burden
on the whispering road.

They were going to exhume
the body of the martyr
for finding the ethos of hope
invoking the afternoon sun
to guide them in dark.

So the blood had a terrible
celebration of alienation
generating the heat of hate
not for the proud mother
who was grieving.

Time will not forgive
for the murder of green eyes.
The masses are rising
like a turbulent sea
riding through the tears.