The Silence Of The Dead

Bodies strewn all around,
Bloodied and torn throughout.
With no whisper, no sound,
All dead without doubt.
The rage of the war has struck;
To death the warriors led.
In this political muck,
Enemies are like brothers dead.

Dust and blood in tandem;
Even the skies have gone numb.
The only creatures at the show
Are the vultures swooping low,
To the food for their thought,
As the soldiers lay to rot.
A disgusting sight to perceive,
Which nations spin and weave.

To what end must this begin?
As the human race grows dim.
When will they ever learn?
With wars, the humans burn.
So now we seek the end;
Our ways we need to amend.
Now, enough has this world bled
To the sound of the silence of the dead.

The Wrath Of The Angels

Burning streets, people dying,
Destruction everywhere.
Flying debris, charred and bloody,
Has left us dark and bare.

Bodies scattered, mothers crying
Over their lost child.
Bloodied feet, souls tattered,
The survivors gone wild.
They pay for their crimes
Not with hate or love.
They’re waiting, they’re watching
For a sign from above.

The cries fill the night,
There is death all around.
No hope in this fight,
The death knell chimes abound.
The Heavens turn around
And they laugh and tells;
It’s the death, it’s the mirth,
It’s the wrath of the angels.

Now open, the grounds split,
The gates to Hell,
The wrath, the destruction,
So humanity fell.
No hope for this mirth,
Revenge for no care,
The wrath of the angels,
No challenge to dare.

Humanity! What have thou become?

Reaping the great sorrows of thine face,
O, the destruction wreaked on thy race,
Humanity, once was a golden harvest,
But thine pests have strengthened t’is nest.

Time and patience, essence is of none.
What joy beseeched to wait for it to come.
Anger floweth to skirt troubled waters,
Where thy calm once resolved matters.

Care for none thou would compromise,
Lest thou ain’t returned a fair prize.
False pretences in emotions lain and beheld,
For sharing in love hath all but prevailed.

Thy seeketh only for thine pleasure,
Yet resources dim by this measure.
Troubled times for tough survival
Thy knoweth all but careth little.

Then there are those who govern us all,
Unworthy players of the political ball.
Truth and thy, enemies by blood,
Drowning nations in thine flood.

Littlest of prods and war unleashed.
Killing more than any calamity abolished.
A game thine playeth for dominance over others’
To hunt and kill, who once were thine brothers.

And then there art thou who striketh terror,
Where innocence is: thine only error.
Destruction without care, where none may tread,
For thy commit a purpose known not even to the dead.

O! What thine face shone once bright,
Done to thyself that killeth the light.
For only sound that cometh near
T’is one that thou cannot hear.

It pleadeth thy race for thine mercy and pray,
To save thine soul from judgement day.
A phoenix’s lament, the sound other is none,
“O Humanity! What have thou become?”

A Curse or a Boon?

The delicate lustre of its petals,
The sweet smell in the air,
The dazzling colours of beauty,
The flower is in full bloom.

The bees swarm around,
Butterflies flutter their wings,
The sweet aroma of attraction
Flatters the flower too soon.

Night approaches by,
Wrinkles appear on its skin,
It has aged its while,
It has now lost its bloom.

A bud next to it,
One so young in life,
Doesn’t grasp the purpose.
Does not realize their doom.

It murmurs a gentle prayer,
‘May thou wither in peace’,
‘For it is now time,
For me to see the noon.’

‘O Little one,
Do not bask in this glory,
For our beauty is a curse
As much it is a boon.’

‘We flatter ourselves
When our petals wide open,
For we only cherish
A single noon.’

O Mighty Creator,
Whoever thou art,
What is thine purpose
For cursing us thus?
To see but a day
And perish the next.
A taste of freedom
With an eternity in our tomb.

The Final Retribution!

A dark swathe obscures the life,
It is but a disguise of what’s to occur.
Perception of the events to follow become clear,
Yet, the mind becomes a blur.
Reminiscence of everything leading up to that moment
Flashes past in quick succession.
It is the void that fills up after,
When one can be au fait with the realization.

What is life, but a parody?
A stage set for existence.
The audience is its maker,
Who gives neither ovation nor an appearance.
The true nature of life one knows not.
Nor is it clear what is in store.
One lives to die; a verity.
But can one die to live anymore?

The realm, an enigma, one knows not what it holds,
The trepidation itself is its strongest grasp.
The key to this corporeal obliteration
Lies in the life for one to clasp.
Recompense sought all the way through.
Such is the raison d'être for termination.
The exploits trailed and bequeathed in existence,
C’est le Créateur’s final retribution!