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
Likes
1307 Views
Share: