Times of trouble, rumors of War. Fallen bodies, on foreign shores. Life’s an endless, feeling of rage. The world has turned, it’s final page. So much trouble, so much hate. It doesn’t matter, you just sit and wait. Brother killing brother, father killing son. The parade of hate, has darkness won? Where’s the hope, where’s the faith, Life is so petty, easy to take. The spiral path, has been spun. Scant attention spent, to whats been done. Who’s the wicked, who’s the pure, The lines are crossed, its all obscure. We’re not the judge, or alone in fate, The malice we covet, wallowing in hate. When will it end, for mankind? For all our wisdom, we still are blind. It will be over, it will be done, Until its settled, the blood will run.
Reason for writing:
When we are young, we have dreams of how wonderful the world is. As time passes, we are constantly reminded that such dreams are not real.
Birth sign: Not entered
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by R. Pendland (Aries).