Barren

He glared at the rope
dangling from the rickety fan,
behind him, the faint
cry of his infant daughter,
parched lips and paper skin,
sung to sleep by her
tired mother. He knew
he shouldn't  leave them alone,
but the noose would kill
the remnants that hunger left.

His debts pressed down
heavy upon his frail shoulders.
He looked outside the window,
the barren patch of land
that filled his heart and soul,
lying dead and dry,
now he was following suit.

He traced his spidery fingers that
lead down to his dirty fingernails
which caressed the entire nation.
Now here he was, squandering
in a dimly lit hut, wasting away,
while the nation grew.

"My existence wouldn't
make a difference"
eyes closed, tears flowing,
the chair was kicked aside.

They found him hanging there,
a note saying he was sorry.
The landlords took his wife away,
and raped his infant daughter.
The media got their scoop,
and the world was saddened
the next day, to see the headlines
"More feuds at the 'Padmavati' set!"