Troops lay root to fiery beds of thorn,
Lifted up upon the grass’ hairy maw,
Brought down the jaws crack and creak,
With a bloody barrage of her ballistic rage,
Morrow’s past begins its descent.
But it is all unrealistic,
If only compared to sins treaty,
Rhetoric of causation’s brawl.
The sister’s son blows on,
Fates shrill lute,
Born of a tinted rue,
Its entrails of blue daunted belief,
Forced into entities of vicious bliss,
Men and women of faith,
Bore collapsed resentment on the brick.
He thought he bore a fruit,
But it was of an ethereal soul,
And caused the barren in Lily’s womb,
For the clutch of silent night beckoned.
This one is on the topic of realistic goals and what some call fate or destiny. Its sad and yet I find it revealing, he grows and attempts to stray but is harshly reminded of what he cannot avoid. I haven’t been able to decide on whether or not I personally believe in fate and for me this piece really showed this, the clash within my own mind. Represented as how I see it as a possibility, but then wonder as to why so many people live such poor live…. Is it because fate despises them? Is it due to the inherent need for balance?… I do not know and that’s where this poem stemmed from.
I hope you enjoyed, sincerely