The Political Poem

This was once a political poem.
It wore a black-shirt,
Red-ribbon on the forehead.
Picked stones on the streets to
Aim at the glass castles.

It rolled around like tar on the roads
Venting off anger like trapped heat
Of primordial earth.
It was hungry, it was poor with
Rags and unkept hair, that learned
To run among dilapidated huts.

It made effigies of leaders to
Burn them on poorly made highways.
Ran marathons to raise funds for
The education of the blind children.
And donated pocket money to
The welfare of HIV-ridden sex workers.

It often took turns to keep watch
On the potential frauds.
Commemorate the Martyrs,
Did candle marches to commiserate
With acid victims and
Commensurate its own eliteness.

Once, this was indeed a political poem,
When the blood didn't refuse to boil.
Wings didn't refuse to fly and
The simmer of thoughts didn't hesitate
To make noise.

Then it caught cold like teens
Getting affected by chronic adulthood.
And now there's no time to think 
Anything beyond one's own runny nose
And the constant urge wipe it off
With a hanky that's clean.