Poor as a feather
Queasy, wan and fragile like a snail
Dour and pathetic in mien
With a mourning nebula of woe
Hovering soggy and bloodshot in her gold-earing
Louring eyes

Skeletal, meagre and emaciated like a dried reed
Her head, a mere cranium garbed
In a poor finery of a dingy sourly skin
The skin of a shark full of sand paper dantides
Her hair, ginger thin rusty wires
Spiced with sedimentary flakes and ashes of dandruff
With a gloss of tears of chagrin smearing her eyes

Poverty-dried sunken cheeks
Crispy temples
Cheeks which vowed not to countenance a smile
An inert spirit, under the bleak shade of melancholy bough
Pathos and gaseous tears gushing from the soft pith
Of her soul
Overshadowed by the sullen holograph of the blues

A heart full of bubbling pus of solitude
Too thermal to smelt steel
Like magma in the earth’s mantle
Mother! when you manure and water
These growing seedlings that hath been bequeathed to thee
They shalt be ripe when the tide comes
Thou wilt harvest the grain of blisters and sweat
Which the living shall admire