Credence

By Arsh Raz

I'm writing this note on trust,

With an absence of it within me.

Where 'Me' as a person

Who no longer believes in 'we'.

Maybe he was shot,

By a well-known bow.

And bled the blood of faith,

As in a storm, the winds blow.

That blown wind 

has drawn a void in his veins,

Which is slowly filling with

Some judging stains.

But, as it wouldn't be the same again,

So, it doesn't matter how small it is.

Because it's a chronic one,

Not just a cold sneeze.

But in some better place,

He may heal the wound of bow.

Yes, it won't be a ten,

But enough to hide. And show 

to the world he belongs,

For the sake of trust:

A virtual string, world believes in,

Until the time it doesn't burst.

By Arsh Raz