I Will Not Weep For Them
Weaker men would weep for them,
but I am hardened like hot steel
dipped into the spring.
They know not well the creatures
who are attacking them, laughing
knowing their futures are rotting.
Older generations watch in disgust,
having admiration for the few - those
who do not succumb to folly.
Listening intently are these hopeful
young. Planning to carve out a hefty
piece of a pie not baked for them.
My time is not wasted upon these few,
but upon these others, I have a shallow seeded
hatred, contorting my facial calm.
They do not see the inevitable hardship,
the discourse of their lives to come, and
more so do I not wish to call, knowing
they will not answer.
Out of some false sense of duty I go on,
dreaming and wishing, praying that they
might soon see the light.
Praying that in darkness their eyes might adjust
like the lion stalking his prey in the brush.
Seldom am I impressed by any of them,
and its work enough helping he who
wants some help.
Yet, knowing that he who seeks is he who
will most likely be fine, it is the other rough
nonsensical ones that truly need my help.
What should I choose? Should I pluck them out
like the eye that offends. Cut them off like the
hand that does the same? And leave them in
Cancer is not accepted, but attacked with hatred,
but does a child deserve that planning? Wasn't the
world this mean since time of old?
Would a shovel to gravel be fitting, toss their bodies
into the quiet of the deep, forget that they have walked.
For what will be the value of this world,
if those who lack respect and honor be given
the scepter of rule and allowed to lead.
I force my mind to optimism like a hopeless
romantic waiting for thy true love, wondering
if one day the tide will subside and leave us dry,
comforted by the sun.
Or will this world remained drowned in the action
of the uncouth and unprepared, as war stirs upon the globe
and where mindlessness is cheered.
Beauty After Destruction
When They Put Me Back In The Mud