By Vincent Valentine

By reading lines of characters’ times from books of writers’ past

And writing from dreams of ours’

Awakened is that leviathan we call the brain -

A colossal thing with thoughts amassed from the entwined tortured mind

Notions come to life and give birth to prose

I pen a thought to books I read; some surfeits of sorrows

And now ah to me an enigma is posed:

What do I feel towards the lives printed in the books?

Towards gangs of fiends in slums where bloodshed teams,

Cries of the wicked to the wicked for aid in illegal means,

A people with souls massacred by officials overflowing in tyrannical cynicism,

And individual lives snuffed and families shredded by supreme manipulation?