Not summer’s heat
Nor winter’s chill
Though snow is 15 feet
And Fahrenheit soars to 100.
Then watch hurricane Irene tear your heart
In consort with the wind
As crops disintegrate
And mud swallows up your life, your dreams
And follow her from flood to famine
The inexhaustible dryness of nature’s vengeance
Burns body and land.
A tale of change, a warning to a world asleep
A scream without a sound,
As plunderers make their way
Through primeval forests,
Tag Archives: writing. poetry
Pain. Makes you aware. Dulls other pain. Nothing serious. Just pain. Can’t deal with it, introduce pain. More pain each time. Nothing serious. Just tolerance. Intolerance in the rest of life? Introduce pain, a little more each time, until it fills the void. But the void grows, is never filled. So pain dulls, just like everything pain was supposed to divert you from. And the next step?
To end pain.
Devoid of pain, of feeling, of life, limb, love, longing, languishing on the laments of listless lovers.
A fine line, a thin line, a dotted line, the end of the line, to stand in line for what? For whom? For how long?
Till longing leaves and winter covers the barren trees with snow so thick your mind is blanketed in endless whiteness, a void unto itself, you move without thought, involuntary action, unquestioned, unquestioningly, automaton, molded by others, you are the person others wanted. You are not yourself.