The Poll Draw Poem by Job Laz

On the birth of day
I lazingly bestrided my lair
With thoughts tearing my hope like dagger
Which tickled my will?
The polls to which tomorrow is made,

With quick heave
My initiation stood complete
Enlaced in the registers of choice
In which my dreams are conceived
And raced to the eyes of all kin

In a sombre tensity
My pick is weaken to triviality
My sole truce battered to tiny bits,
Cheering the injury unveiled to the nudity like a babe,

Like sunset transited beyond
To cipher the notes on their sour tongue
To embrace dearly the fruits of my toil
Which sweetens my belly?
Like a cup of honey
But wrecks my aspiration like a whirlwind,

And at the brook ruse
My aging desire fall to earth
With my ample theme
Massacred by the darts of rapacity
Which amputated my confidence?