The life that i live, is akin to the grave
I sit by a fire, i suttely rave
of things that I know, cannot be changed by me
and so, empty now, i find I am not free
With ball and with chain, I move slowly along
without hope, without life
without laughter or song
a cold, dead existence, like i’m in a pine box
and my heart, oh it seems, has been weighed down by rocks.
Alone here I stand, as a terrified sort
Afraid of the cold that now crushes my heart
My mind, how it wanders
through fields of pain
as I sit by the fire, and look at the rain
ter
And cry, I cannot, for myself or another
but tell them my plights, to do so would be slaughter
So hide them i must, in words and in prose
and hope that one day, I’ll come back like the rose.
Who falls prey to winter’s cold fingers and grasp
I hope that this pain, I myself will not grasp
from now in my struggle, till the end of my days
but know not this, do I, for life works in strange ways…
Poetry