A simple flick,
Of a teeny tiny matchstick.
Was all it would take,
To get the herd slain.
The scene was set;
The play began.
A fire was lit,
Raged; and raged.
The city brought to halt,
Shook like a crumbling stone.
Watch, ho! Declared the doomsayers.
Our apocalypse is here.
Fear not; such superstitions.
Proclaimed the wise graybeards.
Mindless men wandered about,
Clueless, without a doubt.
A mysterious mist wrapped around,
The crowd was distraught;
Disfigured, and disillusioned;
The haze engufled them all.
The bells of death rang several times,
Unrusted, were its hinges and cracks.
Lets start afresh,
There is no need for unrest.
Said the arsonist,
Bloody hands weaving the tale.
Your slate is red,
Follow the gates to hell.
Replied the herd,
Clearly not impressed.
Go here, go there. Chaos;
Everywhere.
Mindless men wandered about,
Clueless, without a doubt.
YOU ARE READING
Rhythms From a Quarter Life
PoetryI will die the very moment this poetry collection is complete, not a moment more, not a moment less. Yet, what worries me is not death but never being able to complete this poetry collection. These are the rhythms resonating from a quarter-life.
