THE FUTILITY OF IT ALL: A POEM OR SO IT SEEMS

Have I been good to you? Treated you fairly? Listened to your worries? Have I given you some of my time? Made you feel like you are a beautiful being? Have I been decent and respectful to your pain? Taken your advice when you gave it? Have I given you a reason to laugh? A cause to celebrate? Have I indulged your peculiarities and told you it is alright to be different? Have I told you truth even when a lie would have served you better? Have I denied you pain even when it was what you sought with all of your heart? Have I told you secrets that I have held close for too long? Have I covered your secrets in the darkness of my heart? Have I given you a piece of cloth to wipe your tears? If I have, then at one time or the other you used to be my friend. But you see;

As the sun rises and sets,
So does man crumbles to dust.
As evening fades to morning,
So does babes unborn fight
The womb that dares them to live.
As trees weave in terrible storms
So do the days of a broken man.
As prayers lift to the heavens
So do troubles beset even
The rat in the security of its hole.

You may not like my words but you should know that;

There are days of wet,
Filled with murmuring streams,
Turgid leaves and swollen earth.
There are days of drought
When tears are scarce
And lips are numb with pain.
There are days when friends
Hold up friends like firm roots
Holding up new green shoots
And there are days when a hand
At your back is a knife on your throat.

There's life and death,
The struggle in every eye.
There are those who pray to find sleep
And those who pray to never wake.
There's a song all birds sing
In the morning when the earth
Takes her first breath and
There's the silence before the storm
When every breath ceases
And the world trembles and fears.

This is as much truth as I can give for though I feel the need to speak, I know you barely hear me. I know that;

Some of us have claimed posterity
And some notoriety
But we are, all of us, part of a scene,
A play that never seems to end.
There are those who watch;
Standing aside to let life play
And there are those who stride
The stage seeking for a semblance
Of hope, salvation, immortality and fame.
There are also those, at the fringe,
The edge of darkness,
Folded, no contorted into shapes
Waiting, praying for the end.

But is this all of it? Is there nothing else to strive for? Can we go beyond all that we have seen and heard? Is hope something to be bandied about like a panacea? I do not have the answers but I want it to be clear that though;

The sea sings his song
And the cliffs, they listen,
The fisherman throws his net
And catches the moon and the stars
On the face of the world,
A bottle trundles the waves
Seeking the tears of a man's heart,
These are all scenes in a story
And we will forget them for in all honesty,
Tomorrow brings more things
To shovel into the spool
That plays this farce,
This mystery called life.

Do you understand me? Do you see the futility of it all?

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_{Railway close to my home captured by my lens.}

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©warpedpoetic, 2019.