In troubled moments,
Heavy laden with doubt
And dripping with melancholy,
We take our insignificant places.
Everything is in place,
Order has been ensured.
Conformity marks the death
Of true and pure individuality.
As disposable plastic pawns,
Standing before our checkered past,
We become a trivial number
In a game of sudden death.
Every pawn has its use
Or else it is quickly discarded,
Thrown into a flaming pyre
Which burns but never consumes.
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Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Offline) - Published: January 25th, 2017 21:38
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 21
Offline)
Comments2
Thanks! I can only imagine what you and her went through. With that said, I am thankful that you shared with me what this poem powerfully evoked and that you related with it. Many thanks!
A super read with some great lines.
Thank you kind sir!!!
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