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What is the poet whose hand goes on without muse? Does he simply write words that are hollow and without meaning?
I fear myself falling victim to what I know is the deepest of darkness. An inescapable being who only whispers anger and regret silently to me.
You know this voice. You have heard it before.
Depression. The hideous beast whom hides behind the eyes of those whose hearts are thick with love and care.
And now, such is my heart; heavy with love and care. What once beat only ice and black blood, now beats a somber tune for what could have been.
I wish to clasp the hand of she, my maiden, whose embrace scares away the darkness. But she is beyond my reach, and a kiss is inconceivable.
I desire the life of the wayfarer, travelers; those whose homes are of their own choosing. But the songs of my maiden keep me from the road.
I would like to help everyone, to makes lives better for knowing me. But this cannot be done without meeting many, and the absence of money cripples this endeavor.
But what feeds the beast more and more of me each day, is not being without my love, is not my dreams of the road being dashed, is not my poverty and uselessness.
It is the world. Yes, all things about how we live.
How can you tolerate it? How can you go on yet another day? How do you sit so complacently at your computer while the wicked oppress the righteous?
I do not understand this world, and I do not know of the gods it worships. We are so willing to live and let live, without realizing that this apathy is our greatest sin.
You may feel that you are being wronged when you do not get what you want. But how is the man whose life is meaningless to feel?
When the lives of the wealthy are remembered evermore, and they who slave and toil become dust in the wind?
Christians cry intelligent design and divine protection. Politicians plea control and competent leadership.
Yet the cries and pleas of the distraught and slaughtered are overpowered by the sounds of crisp dollar bills buying churches and fixing elections.
How can this be? I do not understand. How can the oppressors occupy but one percent of us all, yet they hold the leash that fits so tightly around our necks?.
Is the all mighty dollar truly stronger than the arms of eight billion people? Are we so misguided that we actually believe the voices of few should rule us all?
I am sad for myself, my country, my people, and my world. Like sheep being led to the slaughterhouse, we blame only the shepherd for leading us there. Yet it is the sheep, who outnumber the shepherds greatly, who choose to walk toward demise.
- by Latharianis |
- Poetry And Lyrics
- | Submitted on 09/17/2013 |
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- Title: Dystopia
- Artist: Latharianis
- Description: You.
- Date: 09/17/2013
- Tags: barefoot gent
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