The years
have grown old
they totter
their hearts have turned cold

weary of what man had said before
and his life-stories falsely retold-
the mean and meaningless outcry
the darkness too black to ever unfold.

In time to come
but when?
I might still be
beyond my ken-

the past it chides and mocks me
the present doubts when I say:  'I can'
the future shies away when I draw near
when could I prove I'm my own man?

Sentient is
the voice
of the poet
not sententious

his heart
is heavy-laden
with
the pain
of the world

his words
are tears-filled

life's sufferings
can't be thwarted
neither by prayer
or deed

poetry stands apart
as the lone chronicler
of the heart of man
an equal weeper

when someone
anywhere
is in pain
that mysteriously
filters through
the blood-stream
of a sentient poem.

Not knowing
but not quite ignorant
the doubt pervading
even in matters that seem insignificant

not in darkness complete
but in struggling light
life is not what the eyes meet
its plot thickens in uncompromising blight.

For want of words
I should silent stay
fabricate or distort?
that must not be my way

for language has life
and to me harsh words it would say
if I were a purveyor of falsehood
or its beauty and purity betray.

I'll no longer deliberate
not on my side anymore is time
old age comes too soon and is abhorred
it announces: 'Beware of the pending final outcome'.

I'll no longer weep
tears should be left
buried under the river
of the past--not to be delved.

I'll no longer beg to be loved
it shall be mine if such I deserve
if I've been true and in faith abided
love's gentle cradle shall be my preserve.

I'll no longer be on any search
joys and sorrows--they have my life shaped
into the labyrinth of my heart they have ******
in their wordless mysteries I'm draped.

Kids run in the park
watched by their happy parents
sick child on wheelchair