It Means

poetry about time


I wish I could save them all,
but what can one do
against the wheel of time,
against the wall of war,
such is the nature of our kind,
blessed, cursed, unsure,

to live the lives of foreigners
in a world beautiful and cruel,
drinking from the cup of bliss,

knowing not what is happiness,
confused and arrogant,
killing our every dream

in the name of Gods supreme,
behind intentions good we hide,
waiting for our cup of gold…

I have nothing else to say.
Blame me, throw away my thoughts,
cut me with a thousand swords,
yet I can see the Moon,
silver as she has always been,
lighter than the sun above,
it makes the meaningless to mean.



photograph by Garrett Sears

The Writers Manifesto


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