Victims

 

Through life’s unpruned path,

I walk with a crowd

that cuddle the fear of being victims;

victims of sharpened ecstasy,

threading on the paths of “Never.”

They burned our bridges,

we crossed their lines,

but we still bottle our fears

under the tree of pain.

The vegetation is not green,

our lives, bitter.

Our faces seem to burst

with expectations of the worst.

But on this unpruned path,

our hopes would see us through.