The strong and the wistful

die fighting the storm,

the weak hide to survive,

to grieve, to mourn.

The guilt of life,

of things that men don’t do -

getting strong with fading life,

the reclusive memories of the dark

now, floating, atop the anger and despair

The storm is over

but the fire and wind, remind of the disaster,

swirling hearts and time into a pensive alteration;

and the fear still remains to haunt,

the cowardice dances affront

eyes don’t close,

forced to gaze

into the maze.

Hopeless!

as they always had been!

What did they ask for?

What were they made for?

The deeper it cuts, the more benumbed we are

the next time, we might not feel at all.

But the memories linger to burn our soul!

[Fairness is decided by the perception of fouls

if the fight for food is life, did they ever see

what it’s like, to swim in the river and run home for meal?

if hunger becomes an addiction they have to take in with life,

will they ever notice what it’s like - the taste of champagnes and wines?]

To fight and die,

to hide and survive,

it’s not a matter of choice.

its a matter of following a voice

if the one inside you desires to remain silent,

the ones outside take over.

And,

The dead - they escaped suffering

Those alive - they escaped death.

Every action has something good to offer

everyone has something to gain!

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Posted by Awsiv in Poetry on June 7th, 2008  |      212 Views     Share This     Print This Post