An Elegy

The abundance spills on my 
torn shirt, when I was 
gathering your voice. 

The affiliated sore 
begins to fester in your face― 
after flying a kite. 

It blurs, when you give 
a speech, manipulating the lives 
of innocent bystanders. 

When you were heaving the numbers, 
I was holding on the poems, like coins 
not your paper thoughts. 

Being blind was not becoming 
a Buddha in the garden. 
Suicides were increasing every day.