Spring Will Suffer Those Who Came

A poem I wrote about the inevitable cycle of life in the world we live in.


Winter reared its shapeless menagerie,

Of fools born from common whores.

They stand on bloodied stumps while singing,

Their onerous anthems of imminent war.


Baneful cutthroats convoke their chattel,

And make quick rivers from their stock.

Be they young or old, man, woman, or child,

They bow and weep, their tears they mock.


Virile and wise spring forth from ashes,

Then cloistered behind throngs of fools.

Ear-splitting aniles can’t have them evident,

Nags smother their alms with disdainful rules.


The toil and shares of infirmed and meek,

Are seized and dispersed to those who squat.

Taxing choices between pap and pill,

Are fated by virtue of a paltry pot.


One wonders using their mind of youth,

If shuttering out is wrong or right.

When seeing through eyes of long lived wisdom,

Clarity arrives to shore up the fight.


Through death the stray sees hope bloom,

An era emerges less ire and shame.

Let lunatics and lawmakers dance among poppies,

Then spring will suffer those who came.

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