The contempt’s from the stranger’s eyes,
A weakened hope and all the vain tries.
On a hill I stand with a strong breeze beside,
Scripting on a stone, the way I died.
A bullet from a cold shaking metal gun,
Blew the brains embedded in my skull.
Unconscious and oblivious and dark and dull,
My legs surrendered the support and down I crumpled.
Heavy showers started to downpour on my corpse,
The rats and birds dined on my flesh and bones.
Within moments they drilled thousands of holes,
There were none to at least bury the leftovers.
I kept on questioning the God Almighty,
"Why does it always have to be me?"
Reasoning with all, I still couldn’t believe,
Hell with the scattered brain,
The broken bones that laid,
But those same miseries and pain,
Of which I had to do all this,
Are still left in my conscience,
God,
Why Me?