40-09-43 Boston Marathon
(center)
Beyond the gentle drops of rain,
That crawl softly down my face,
Mingle tears of my heartfelt pain,
Drawn from this putrid, human race.
Their clothes were soaked in warm blood,
Spilt by rebels behind the wall,
Bystanders wading into the flood,
To retrieve lost souls as they fall.
I close my eyes and cast a tear,
Over Mother Nature's glossy stain,
I'm forced to look away in despair,
For I can't help all those who are slain.
We like to grieve for those who care,
Their memories provide us life,
Our real emotions we try to bare,
Our feelings we prefer to hide.
Families hiding behind locked doors,
With windows shut each night,
While victims crawl across the floor,
Lurking in shadows beyond our sight.
I watch this faux pas of society,
Without conviction to be found,
With motives beyond you or me,
Trailing the stench of hell’s hound.
Let's face it, without hell below,
There's no point in heaven above,
We may not adorn a bright halo,
Yet we still fight for white peace doves.
Would peace ensure safety from harm?
I'm just so curious to know,
My only peace is with your arms,
When you hold me so tight I cannot go.
Although we lock ourselves away,
Or even try to lock the evil up,
The hounds' still come night and day,
As passion delivers new pups.
What is passion? I’m forced to say,
As it resides in everyone’s eyes,
Including those who plot all day,
To ensure somebody dies.
Passion is shared by friend and foe,
And those who fight for common cause,
So many forms I do not know,
Always present as death within wars.
The rain now falls upon this earth,
From grey clouds high above,
With my tears they soak the turf,
In this world soaked through with love.
(c) 2015 PJ Bayliss
(/center)
Copyright © Pj Bayliss | Year Posted 2015
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment