I.
There were gods
in the cracks of stone,
and every shadow
had a name.
II.
They planted their lives
like seeds beneath the sky,
and called the harvest
a reason to exist.
III.
The bells rang.
The fields breathed.
The dead
were still part of the world.
IV.
Then we built a cage
from our own comforts,
painted it gold,
and called it progress.
V.
Now the lights never die.
Neither do we.
We simply remain.
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Author:
The Skeptic (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 19th, 2026 01:45
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: Kaz, sorenbarrett, 𑣲┆cursed ˚.⋆ֹ
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Comments1
Deeply metaphoric this poem personifies the shadows. Indeed the second stanza has deep meaning. Yes the harvest is the given meaning of life to most. I love the concept of a gold cage for progress for that fits so well my concept of technology and its gilded comforts that trap us. The final stanza speaks of immortality but paired with a feeling of it being traded for a feeling of purposelessness. I have always said if offered the choice between a long life of misery or no purpose or a short one of purpose and joy I would take the latter. Quality over quantity for me. Very nicely written and a fave
Thank you. I think that was exactly the contradiction I wanted the ending to leave behind - that we traded purpose for permanence, and somehow called the trade progress. A longer existence means very little when there is nothing left worth existing for. I’m glad the gold cage and the harvest came through the way they did. Your interpretation means a lot.
My pleasure
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