Master, you called me; I came here at your bequest

For the dread is real, percolating and killing the surreal, the trepidations lay in agitation, and daffodils die and rot.

To all the brethren of wingers, risers, and forever captors, for we are them, and you are us.

Try solving your mysteries, bogged by fog, hog and hog, muse in the ruse, claimant waiting for a proclaimed ardent follower, crawler, baller, agitator, asphyxiated by the consumed work yet undying.

Under the fork, he is dying, forever trying and frying himself in heat till his soul beats, in the emerging cockpit as the assuaged airlines leave the sorrow-laden lands.

Heating and arranging soul pieces crapped under the mahogany dense grass covers filled with an aura fumed with human manure.

For you demand, I go and with my own hands, sell my soul, my instinct, body and pick up what you expelled out from your behinds,

Bearing bare with hands in gorged fangs, limping and breaking fighting a snake-eating mongoose.

The spillage of blood is gravely and intensively cataclysmic, making the body anemic by a lack of salts and water, devoid of iron and protein, while I bleed as I enter the human dump.

You bleed from the excessive eating, heating, and silting, affecting the streams and digestive juices, vanishing in thick fog and air, fair and square, repentance on layers.

I die with your every bite, short-sighted freight, crazily gorging on cruel eateries, chilies, and intense flavors, spices, and additives.

As every aspect of your food is taken off of the withdrawn sense of injustice, I had to face, gaze at, and praise your own fixated crappy profanity.

There is no coalesce happening; we are trapped in the hierarchy, born into sorrows and angst,

Brunt and grunt part of a facade, additive to chores and dealing in mighty pores.

My women are whores, while yours are assuagingly pretty; accentuating their predestined adoption of making love to a man who washes off of remains of behinds,

Haphazard rough skin lines; for every cat, even kitten, can dig and hide their shit.

But you refuse to care for your own, for your ability to be incredibly futile knows no proportions,

Of portions of opinions exist by truth-tellers and justice seekers, yet no justice or my dwelling roar till solstice.

And you sit, eat, and shit at, with your whimsical laughs, harrowing crass, and call the abusers heroes and perpetual winners.

(Cosmic Context is an additional portion that I use to explain the poem better)

Cosmic Context: This poem reflects on the lives of Manual Scavengers who are breathing humans, often belonging to a lower caste strata community in India. They are bound by birth to clean septic tanks or spaces meant for human waste collection. It's their despair, and genuine appeal of what life looks like from their perspective. For they are not just an entity themselves but a wider representation of a global oppressed class symbolizing deeper oppression; while physical oppression controls bodies, conscientious oppression controls the psycho-social existence of the oppressed sections of humanity.

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