Nov 22, 2014
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 14, 2014
I flip my book to make stick figures dance,
The untold stories from its margins jump,
The frame neglects these tales in one first glance,
But rumpled wretched across the pages romp!
The weak and the meek shoved in slums arise
To put on a show in centuries not seen,
For though the book is filled with ample lies,
The margins march to stage a brand new scene!
Beaten up, starved, how much can one endure,
When the three monkeys numb their senses shut,
For the riches opulence and allure,
Leave the destitute souls in margins rot?
Book torn, worn, but margins are not faded,
They stage a dance against a world jaded.