Because sometimes I like to rant about injustice and such through poetry.

What a thought to be mended,
There was something else in the bin,
Yet it was unattended.
Limited coercion,
Unfair play,
Access denied.

Content was the shoemaker,
Seeing the fascinated looks of
Everyone but –
Others outside the window,
Still was borrowed,
Still was untreated,

Still was madness
Performed orderly,
Leaving no debts behind.
Yet, he believed in all his might
Those formal letters
That were never signed
Just like the front pane
That yells beloved
But sells taints.
Unfortunate were the metres,
Measured by lenient laws
And lost in the empty smiles.
What a pitiful premise,
Yet his eyes shine,
Seeing value for the first time.