Sway Of The Self Poem by Naveed Akram

My wretched self is exchanging the pleasure
With disbelief, an irony has surpassed the weather;
My arms fold, ranting mouth speaks potions,
So ire besets a tired public when beseeched
By my eloquent height and voice, the stares abound.

My soul resides in the heavens, not that late,
For the night has never ended, nor finished
With delay, not even in the handsome fight.
The soul is the sorrow of the sale, it aches
Acting in accordance with you, like a fault.

Many strident foes instigate their displeasure,
Voices from the inner self abide in suspended
Pleasure but are washed away like the foams
Alighting the shore, little are the waves alighting
The size of the ocean in its sway and swing.