"unmerciful" poems
Feeling the box I work in closing in on me during winter’s last gasp,
She has dug in her heals refusing to yield to warmth.
Unmerciful and unrepentant in her bitterness,
she taunts and tortures us all.
Yet, spring birds sing of spring as a lover sings of her man.
The sun struggles to break through the dark grey,
melting away the dim cold
and drabness that surrounds all.
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 7:03 PM UTC
The roses of Love glad the garden of life,
Though nurtur’d ’mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
Or prunes them for ever, in Love’s last adieu!
In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,
In vain do we vow for an age to be true;
The chance of an hour may command us to part,
Or Death disunite us, in Love’s last adieu!
Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast,
Will whisper, “Our meeting we yet may renew:”
With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow’s represt,
Nor taste we the poison, of Love’s last adieu!
Oh! mark you yon pair, in the sunshine of youth,
Love twin’d round their childhood his flow’rs as they grew;
They flourish awhile, in the season of truth,
Till chill’d by the winter of Love’s last adieu!
Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way,
Down a cheek which outrivals thy ***** in hue?
Yet why do I ask?—to distraction a prey,
Thy reason has perish’d, with Love’s last adieu!
Oh! who is yon Misanthrope, shunning mankind?
From cities to caves of the forest he flew:
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;
The mountains reverberate Love’s last adieu!
Now Hate rules a heart which in Love’s easy chains,
Once Passion’s tumultuous blandishments knew;
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins,
He ponders, in frenzy, on Love’s last adieu!
How he envies the wretch, with a soul wrapt in steel!
His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few,
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel,
And dreads not the anguish of Love’s last adieu!
Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o’ercast;
No more, with Love’s former devotion, we sue:
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;
The shroud of affection is Love’s last adieu!
In this life of probation, for rapture divine,
Astrea declares that some penance is due;
From him, who has worshipp’d at Love’s gentle shrine,
The atonement is ample, in Love’s last adieu!
Who kneels to the God, on his altar of light
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew:
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight,
His cypress, the garland of Love’s last adieu!
3.7k
Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.
Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.
Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.
Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
And Blink said Week! , which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.
Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood;
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.
Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.
But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.
The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon,
And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
He fired two bullets but they didn't hit,
And Custard gobbled him, every bit.
Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
No one mourned for his pirate victim
Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.
But presently up spoke little dog Mustard,
I'd been twice as brave if I hadn't been flustered.
And up spoke Ink and up spoke Blink,
We'd have been three times as brave, we think,
And Custard said, I quite agree
That everybody is braver than me.
Belinda still lives in her little white house,
With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,
And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:15 AM UTC
the quality of quantity is unmerciful,
prodigious production of
wine improperly aged,
pours soiled drops
spilled without craft,
care or taste,
poured too quick to be
nothing more than
less than waste
born in reckless unrestrained
than every thought a golden gift,
bestowed upon the masses,
droppeth like the harshest hurricane rains,
gives no moisture sustenance to the world,
only floods and lays waste in dazed hazes
blesses none but the one who
cannot but cant,
measures his own demeanor in the mirror,
unsuspecting the mirror mirrors
the ides of ego,
seeds of self destruction
the throned monarch
who giveth
but does not take,
thinking the king he is,
his own best,
even better than his creator
and tho he carvo's his retno critiques
upon the brows of his subjects,
he cares not,
for it boring brings
more mastubatory page views
his addition of success,
his edition of self congratulatory
of writs and snits,
which adds up to a whole lot of
****
but you may put you pen down now,
for the world needs only
need one poet,
and it ain't me,
and it certainly ain't
you
.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 4:24 PM UTC
I was unmerciful.
I remember killing innocence.
I heard screaming and yelling.
I saw dust and blood spreading endlessly.
I worried that this would be my fate.
I thought that I would be taken over forever.
But, I want to change.
I am sweet and kind.
I think everyone deserves MERCY.
I need to free everyone.
I try to SAVE everyone.
I feel determined.
I forgive Chara.
Now I can change.
I will be brave.
I choose to be merciful.
I dream to free monster kind.
I hope everyone will get along on the surface.
I predict I will be an ambassador.
I know it will end perfectly.
I will change.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 10:35 AM UTC
The sky is so blue, yet so very sorrowful,
Here in my prison, these thoughts just won't fade,
Exiled from a holy world into a lonesome, somber lunacy,
This painful day, the dream of a better, hopeful tomorrow,
Are truly the light of my fading consciousness in this hell,
So I went to count the days till judgement deems me pure again, until I may become whole once more from these broken shards of the past,
Budding sprouts begin to bloom quietly, as the timeless seasons rush by and vanish into the bittersweet remembrance of ones memories,
"Stay, even if you're weak, dear conscious" I wispered to myself as then my tired eyes got distracted for a brief moment,
Time already had come to an inevitable halt, so at least my pocketwatch told me after letting out one last, delicate ticking sound,
With that, the phantoms of my past had laid down to rest, as the coming dawn greeted me by displaying the fading stars of the sky,
This is truly a repeated tale I endure in this pitiful isolation,
But if my painful past were to be erased, the last brilliance of my life would be deemed lost, for the darkest moments truly are a gift from above, helping us to determine moments of joy, bliss and purest love,
So I hope that one day, this body of mine will swift into prayers, hopefully in the beauty of an unclouded light, filled with moonlight,
Maybe then, I can finally move on, leave this lunacy far behind me,
Deep inside these puzzled eyes give me courage,
Despite being sealed away I shall discard everything and challenge this unmerciful fate of mine,
Then I can reach that sky, where my ideals are displayed,
Surely freedom awaits the border of consciousness, at least I hope,
Love blooms on the waters surface, filled with countless tears
And with this newfound freedom I can withdraw myself in this wonderful, pure holy world I waited for so long!
Despite it being distant a fantasy,
I dream of a hopeful tomorrow,
Here, in my exile.
~ Umi
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 5:08 AM UTC
how can I write
when I am curled up
in these unblooming tulip
petals, the sunlight cast out
when I most need it
to pour it over me
and the whiff of
winter in this unmerciful spring
how can I bloom
when this melancholy I carry
flush against the bud
of my heart rips open
my flesh—
my throat dry,
my cheeks tear-stained
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 6:23 PM UTC
Women are crying blood instead of tears
children are hunted like lions hunt deers
they don't even get a chance to plan for their careers
isn't that a big burden for them to bear ?!
Apparently , these aren't our interests to think about ..
Oh come on guys ! There still lots of movies and football matches to watch out !
Really , isn't he your brother who screamed loud ?
Asking; where are u brother ? I'm freaking out
He could hardly beleive you're leaving him to die out !
For how long will we pretend being deaf and blind ?
Are u waiting to hear the news notifying u the death of ur close friend ?
have u ever tried to think about the tough time he spent ?
and what did he do to have such an unmerciful end ?
Now raise your hands and ask Allah to have their nation mended ..
This at least will releive their problems and save them from that tormentful current
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
I.
My parents don't drink.
They have their masters.
They both have jobs so that I don't have to.
They raised me the Christian way.
We eat as a family every night.
We live in a neighborhood where violence is ostracized.
To my friends, my house is the place for comfort.
They tell me not to take it for granted
just because I'm used to it.
So I took a walk through my house,
making sure not to take my life for granted.
Through the kitchen,
I remember the unrelenting fist curled around my wrist,
the ice blue eyes that I used to see as gray,
the tight lips and the seething words.
I shake my hand as I remember the bloodlessness,
the purple swelling as eyes welled with tears,
the way I raced out only to find that I could not open the door to escape,
with one hand broken and the other unable to curl around the ****
Down the hallway,
I reach up to massage my neck,
for the memory of choked tears
never leaves;
the sudden unforgiving fist
the strength with which a five-year-old could not compete.
My body swings from the neck down,
and the fist released as the arm powered me onto the floor of my room.
II.
I catch my foot on the dining room chair I used to hold in front of myself,
growing up a fighter.
When I learned to defend myself with the strength of age and experience,
the strangling fist became biting words.
When I gave up the religion under which I was raised,
I was told that I must not love that fist or those words,
that I took my life for granted.
I was told that I was the key to our family's unity.
I was told to grow up.
I don't drink.
I get good grades.
I find money for college so they don't have to.
I believe in loving everyone like Jesus did.
I make dinner when they don't have time.
I never bring home fighting friends.
To my friends, I make my parents proud.
They ask me how we have such a good relationship,
they ooh and aah at our affection.
But you don't love me.
I am your failure.
I am your tax break.
I grew up a fighter,
and you gave up.
III.
I used to fight for you,
but they say indifference is worse than anger for a reason.
My mother used to wonder,
where did these bruises come from?
I always shrugged,
telling myself,
I'll deal with this alone.
I'll get a reaction somewhere else.
And that fist, those words,
became teenage promiscuity.
The sweet, unmerciful clutch,
the never ending cycle of discontent,
miscommunication and misunderstanding
and the familiar feeling of not being able to escape.
And every time,
as feelings of decreased personal value were overwhelmed by temporary pleasure,
I sunk deeper into that comfort.
You don't love me.
And I don't want you to.
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 5:53 PM UTC
Sweat drenched bodies tangled snake
like, lips entwined like pair of swans.
One palm grasping the waist
Other holding the mound on chest
Like some ruthless dictator holding humanity.
Traverse on my body’s conduits, beloved!
Regale, relish, feast in its twists and turns,
And with your lips map the boundary
of your kingdom lying conquered in your bed.
With your mighty sword ravage
The territory of yours so long sealed,
Enter in it and let the din and moans to
not melt your heart. Be relentless
and unmerciful—press, pinch, bite,
Spike, goad, tease— make me beg then
Hurl like hurricane swirling in longing
and hunger, subdue only after taking me.
A night in your arms I want, beloved!
Gratify the five senses, bless me the bliss
of life this night. And with your
Measuring tape measure me inch by inch
Touch me those little places I haven’t
touched before, kiss me recklessly
And when you think its time enough
Then rain the seed of your love like farmer
Over my fecund body of field,
So that in time a flower of this
Night spring and wave and smile
in gentle breeze.
Only, a night in your arms I want, beloved!
A night in your arms is all I want!
May 8, 2020
May 8, 2020 at 5:51 AM UTC
Eye in the sky is my mood
And I slip lazing into blue,
The darkest true of your
Eyes, who cast me away,
So unmerciful, in the tides,
Sometimes the moon locks,
Is master of mine and aye,
Of she am I made.
Tonight, as you held me,
So white was my spirit,
Luminous as Lazarus' grave,
As the holey silence, some
Wraith of looks in the sky,
Sometimes the moon shows,
Wears my face and I hers,
Of she am I made?
The night is brisk and raw,
So heated am I next to you,
Ghostly sad and beaming
With joy at the indigo sheet
Of floating stars on the sea,
You hold my heart like faith,
Nebulous as moon in ocean,
Of these I am made.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 1:51 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, stuck in crowds makes me yearn for the invisible:)
such a shame to wish the invisible
anymore not compromising with the ****** gone inevitable
doubt the crowd
all hate all loud
sprinkling poison drops in sounds
unmerciful on my exquisite highs of skied clouds
last night would never come past this already nor around
-------ravenfeels
Apr 19, 2021
Apr 19, 2021 at 5:28 PM UTC
I was obsequious towards you.... opening up to you, I was an impressively sedulous suitor,
Didn't I constantly show my love; like a doting concubine,
yet never was I supposed to.
Did things I'd never wish to again do, You were always lethargic returning any affections.
You're constantly an exorbitantly cruel lover, on too many occasions you've left me; feeling, clinging, wishing & praying that your bitter tortures - would end.
Morbidly I'd crave you like a killer craves the death of his victim's.
Oh there's no end, no relapse or realse, my tormentor, my seemingly drug of choice--is you!
I sincerely felt a cordial love & dislike for how you've had me susceptible to this elegiac experience.
Unmerciful you cast away my heart and dealt my soul a mighty blow.
NEVER again would I be your willing victim, you're antipathies & archaic behavior leaves me wishing for a way out, since you've made me seem more like the enemy.
This love's a beautiful beast & so oblivious to my demise...
I'm still obligated....
I've vowed to stay, fight comes what may...
yet & still You make it clear I'm disqualified before a race could ever be won.....
Why?
My questions unanswered
as if I've never vocalized a retort!
IVE COME TO REALIZE THERE'S NO HOPE FOR ME
☆♡
Always Me Ayeshah ™ ®
K.A.C.L.N ©
All right reserved ®
Copyright 1977 - Present
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
HEARTBEAT OF DELTA STATE
The rain has fallen again,
The streets are isolated,
Everyone is filled with sadness.
Houses and shops have been abandoned,
Villages and towns have been inundated.
Bags and cargoes floats unsteadily,
Cars and buses are deeply buried
deep into the water in a hazy manner.
People, animals, all are transported
by little wooden vessels.
With no idea of when
to take over their properties,
With no idea of where else to go.
The cities, their streets,
houses and cars have being flooded,
Properties, expensive
and extra expensive have been left over.
East Delta had been covered
by the unmerciful ocean.
Precious lives were gone
and more were at stake.
Families and close friends- divided.
Farms with large crops- destroyed.
Hunger and thirsty, hugs my people with sadness,
begging for aid.
Sickness and diseases fill people
with sympathizing outcome.
A land of peace is now a land of disaster,
A land of Labor is now a land of turmoil.
May peace always reign,
May ignorance be neglected,
For the dying heartbeat of Delta.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
The best truths are told with fingers tied
behind the backs of the greatest liars,
and for every time I've heard something too good to be true,
I remember this.
I remember fists,
clenched tight while wishing my body
would disappear in high school hallways.
While I fought against myself halfway out the door to homeroom.
I was “that kid.”
The one who sat with a half eaten lunch
where prying eyes couldn't touch
for fear of people watching me take a bite of what sustains life.
I wanted to be the emptiness that creates a star;
the friction of aimless atoms collapsing into one another to fabricate something beautiful.
People are unmerciful, because I’m still waiting for gravity to do the trick.
I’m still waiting to be worth more than a second pick.
I’m waiting for these shaking hands to stop and hold their fingers steady.
The thing about a star, I learned,
is that when we are staring at Orion’s Belt,
we are looking approximately 1340 years into the past.
I can only hope that my body can last
until I can see my own light.
I’ll keep trying to force my spine
to sit in line with the rest of me;
keep trying like a lightening bug to create my own stars.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
Mighty the muscle of unmerciful momentum
Taking names, keeping pace, rhythmic with the arms of father time
Back to rehash an ancient scribe just moments away
You can taste it
The blood of the forsaken
Dying a thousands deaths
Ravished by the beast
Whilst storms blow in from the east
With messages of pale horses and unrelenting fate
Demanding blood to cleanse the land and to burn the stakes
Fear tantalizes
Exhilarates
All the kings men take their place
and prepare to battle the cycles history incessantly recreates
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 12:27 PM UTC
Empowered by uncontrollable self destructive tendencies,
But not as you know.
I am,
They are,
It is,
Unpredictable, unassuming, unmerciful.
The cure is damaging as is the attempted removal of life,
Still I embrace.
Just that.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 4:40 PM UTC
(Sonnet)
Our tryst was sore, more like pain or penance,
What kerfuffles in our unspoken for eyes
And love grew low, by unanswered questions.
How could we laugh, live in such indifference,
Long, unmerciful time, grinding us down
With not even limitless skies for leaven?
Each day was comic-tragedy, no Eden,
Lives flooded about, simple pleasures drowned.
Yet, each day we dreamed with harnessed wings
Bound together in the throngs, restless journey,
A promise was made on some green gentle isle
And we made our golden shifts such shining things,
Running to rays, future dawns never to come,
Shining things falling mute in dry rots of sun.
.
Oct 7, 2021
Oct 7, 2021 at 7:48 PM UTC
Industry hides under a cunning guise
in which we are blinded
gorgonized
They certainly aren't for you and yours
priorities are set on higher scores
Lost we are
in the wake of corporate greed
in which bottom feeders
fufill and satisfy the belly of this beast
Which pumps out plastics,toxins,and pollutants
in return for our dollar
Killing mother's purity
obscene individual study proves to be
and we overindulge for their prosperity
What a shame,a disgrace,a great pity
that we sell out to this unmerciful machine
I say we let mother be
just let her be
Dont let it be
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
Laying prone next to death which may or may not be my neighbor; knowing that nothing I remember will save me; knowledge, useless knowledge, a required accompaniment to my carefully selected claret smiling with assurance as I infringe upon their right to object to the depths of my retort.
A wrinkled sheet ignored but useful in its random spread across my torso draws the sweat from my pores as I save the planet from my presence while the restlessness of unmerciful insomnia instills a quiet uselessness to my thoughts which I egocentrically assume will yield prose worthy of public display.
As the knowing is swallowed whole, as the last hardened cheese ******* on a plate, it becomes relevant to believe in anything unproven as further observed phenomena is no more or less a sequel to a play yet to be understood by genius or idiocy whose consciousness rival one another in their need to be loved by a suffering mother.
The bullet crosses the boundary between dream and threat into an assumed position of relevance in every step I take towards a repetitive life filtered only by the need for a decision; unhappy with or without; each the same yet held aloft by the delusion of a chance encounter with a heart I will use but never protect.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 10:06 AM UTC
His skin
is dry and faded
like the bark of naked trees gathered.
His eyes
are dark, stormy, grey,
like the sky of a snowy day.
His muscles
are lean and strong
like the harsh winds that blow cold and long.
His lips
chapped and pale
like foot steps in the snow that go out to get the mail.
His personality
is bitter and unmerciful
like the emptiness of the lull.
He is Winter.
Long and lingering.
His favorite.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 12:40 AM UTC
I have been too long from love
which is warm sand 'tween
my toes, the sun, and the shore
'gainst the infinite murmur
is slender, full, and thick with
people and people and people
skins many some golden others
pale as snow, but not that let's
recall your short dark and olive
(hair;body)
teeth imperfect perfect and above
splayed the wide umber of thy nose
and above pierced twin pools of jade
(
and below)
lean firm
distilled youth easy
******* effortless
stomach soft marvelous
(now from sand up)
feet pleasing colours
toes chips
calves diamonds
on bones
thighs unmerciful
and inward folding
hungrily 'tween they
a small stubble
and
heaven
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 5:16 PM UTC
If only she accepted me as her friend,
I would accompany her to destination.
She wouldnt have search for shade to bend.
Love will be our protection.
Behold how she shivers like feverish monster.
The unmerciful rain made her a wet fowl.
She said that rain is the administer
of
ugly,sorrow,sickness,cold and foul.
Oh no! if Goliath seem toughest,
call on David,if rain
is the administer cold
call on love,the supernatural best.
The most costly free gold.
If me and her in the rain walk,
the rain will only flog the dead horse.
Our teasing jokes and sweet talk,
will be our umbrella,no sorrow
nor the worse.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 5:32 AM UTC
For those who, whenever they chase pavements,
stare at the adjacent road that mimics the starless night sky
And inside their heads they pretend
that they unknowingly trip on a crack on the cement,
so that they could find an excuse to use the incoming vehicle as an escape goat for life
Let's raise a glass to you for not doing so!
To the men high upon beams and chains and towers, overlooking the city skyline
filled with people tracing the sidewalks like ants in a single file,
who think to themselves: the fall will probably hurt less than the onslaught of words
coming from their wives for giving them a hard life
Let's raise a glass to you for not doing so!
I lift the crystal in my hand to the women who, no matter how battered and tattered are their skins,
choose to paint their faces with whatever powdered pallet they have
even though Rowling's metal wand sits beside their makeup inside the drawer of their dresser,
waiting for them to take their own life
Let's raise a glass to you for not doing so!
And to the students who have never gotten over their childhood traumas
and to the bullies who never outgrew the bruises from their fathers
that no matter how much it hurt you,
you never chose to end everything with a slipknot or the edge of a blade or with battery fluid you found in your garage,
I envy you
So, let's raise a glass to you too for not doing so!
I raise my half empty glass to all those who failed to take away god's gift
To the men and women who failed in fear of abandoning their children
I spill the contents of this wine glass
in honor of the sons and daughters of wealthy politicians, who succeeded in receiving eternal punishment for taking their lives
And to those who regret that they failed in their first try, please,
don't throw away your life
You are exquisite, you are tantalizing,
you are worthy of a million praises like the saints we see on mosaics and church pieces
Your works are rousing and they enflame the tiniest of sparks in at least one person's heart
be ravenous and unmerciful when improving your craft
Let's raise a glass!
Because as you are reading this, the glass of wine I have been carrying high above my head
had already spilled on the parchment where I have written these words with utmost care
So, will you raise your glass to me?
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
Where fear lives
Hope struggles
To survive
Where anger exists
Dignity fights
To remain alive
Silent worry
Met by prayer
As mortality looms
We smell
Burning denial
And death’s pungent fumes
And now
The seeker
Will roam
Walking the halls
Of God’s message
When will he be called home?
The door
Of pain
And agony
Opens
It is time
For your testimony
Of who you were
And how you waited
Living with tomorrow’s promise
Which suddenly
Is upon you
The doubting Thomas
Do you stand
In your confusion?
Or do you kneel?
Helpless and alone
With your ego’s sword
Now melted steel
Who will make you strong
As uncertainty reigns
And drops its unmerciful curtain?
Who will win?
And who will lose?
Once assured now uncertain
You witness
Laughter and joy
As a prayer is met
With clemency
And grace
As God did not forget
Will you utter an aging promise
With tears from closed eyes?
Giving another false pledge?
Delivered only upon
Your need for God
As you crawl along the edge
Of the end
Of life
Or is it a new beginning?
What will you learn?
How will you live?
Will it be about giving?
You walked into the chamber
And judged yourself
With God’s own revelation
The picture
One of failure
And embraced temptation
When you return
And plead for your life
Or that of another
Will you remember this day
And how you begged
To be mercy’s lover?
Mar 10, 2012
Mar 10, 2012 at 11:06 AM UTC