We now live in houses that are make believe,
Made of black silk, spun by black caterpillars.
A tiger guards the door and we cannot leave,
Afraid that, our friends are all hapless killers.
The high tide is going out tonight,
Let it expose the malignant sand,
The place where sorrow is in sight,
And none of us can lend a hand.
We now eat cold meals alone in the dark,
Our little world that was once golden is no more,
The once verdant forests will be bleak and stark,
And we are left wondering what it was all for.
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Author:
David Wakeling (
Offline) - Published: April 25th, 2025 00:49
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 24
- Users favorite of this poem: arqios
Offline)
Comments2
One that spoke my heart or did it sing in woeful lament 🕊🙏🏻Liked and Faved 🤩
Thank you so much mi amigo.Mucho appreciado
Haha! It was well worth it 🙏🏻🕊️
This speaks to me of the dead and more specifically those fallen in war. It is a most sober poem that is somber as well. Most intriguing images and metaphors. Loved it
Thank you so much compadre. Your comments are always appreciated
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