Passive

In a land not too far away,

Where the fields are gray

They harvest their wheat

That withers every day

They don't breathe more than once

They don't blink more than twice,

Inorder to fulfil their wildest dreams

That never escape the realm of night

 

No one needs to bother,

Where sons bury fathers

Wish it was different,

But we all forgot its our creation

Wish we could go on further,

But these cuffs lack a maker

We'd like to name

 

I still have a chance, I think

Why does it has to be

That when we look forward we see nothing,

But what was and ourselves

Are nowhere to be seen?

 
Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem I wrote that changed on the course of its writting quite dramaticly. The single influence I had evovled abit, but the Idea remains roughly the same.

 

I will nontheless try to keep on writing in the following days, as, In my opinion, it is not entirely complete.

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nightlight1220's picture

Ah...really like this one

Ah...really like this one too... it reminds me of ' living in the moment'....aware, alert, enlightened to life on life's terms and the temptation to want so much more.. people can never be satisfied with what is? Is it a human frailty? If so, we appear a weak species?


...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."

"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "

 

HuliganFish's picture

Not only are we never

Not only are we never satisfied, we won't do anything to help ourselves and promote ourselves. Why bother when we can slowly decay by doing nothing?