I am a delusion,
in the hearts of war.
I am the air,
that you cannot catch.
I am being killed every day,
with words, with knives, with votes.
I’m being forsaken,
of my warmth to the cold.
I am found in the den of the poor,
not in the grandeur of the master.
I am found in the silence of the brick,
not in the noise of the night outs.
My identity has been resurrected,
by vanity and materialism.
A reflection of your soul,
Don’t rip my aura.
Let me live with myself,
live with peace.
Written as a part of the A to Z challenge, details about, which can be read here.
This is the installment to the theme I revealed here.
Such a delicate subject in the world of insensitivity.
From the not so-