Train Ride Home

The Cold Carries a Peculiar Sting

that spares no man without a blanket.

Lost souls on a street corner, shelterless.

 

Curled up fetuses with arms folded inward,

Fighting for warmth they have no share of.

I imagine  hope is a special kind of fire, kindled from deep within ,

relentlessly burning

To keep the cold at bay.

The world that watches is a vaccum of indifference.

Out here Every Scream is a silent cry.

Every glaring violation is a forgotten story. 

I keep my eyes Humbled, and my hands raised skyward: 

The Qiblah of Supplication , Wherefrom Mercy Descends.