William Coyne Poet Rhyme

Ancient Barbers

. for public domain
. offered for the innumerable small graves of indigenous children recently discovered 

Our most harsh cynics,
with their gaze ever on the shadows,
Hope that Light may someday rise,
and illuminate green meadows.

They dash false hopes that thrive in the shade,
savor truths, cold and grim,
stab at chimeras man has made,
to slither off into the din.

Blades of passing fantasy and Faith,
like ancient barbers drawing blood,
sooth the Spirit of societal woes,
but drain it of its bud.

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L Milton Hankins June 30, 2021 at 11:19 AM Fine writing, William. I read your thought-provoking lines with great interest. William Coyne June 30, 2021 at 4:34 PM Thanks, L MILTON HANKINS. The passage of time may not be enough to ease the raw horror of such a monstrous travesty, but I could not just stand in shock as a silent witness. I had to make sense of it somehow, and I dared not approach any emotion near the neighborhood of grief as a theme. Like the Holocaust, there is no explaining it. There is only description, as blasphemous as that may seem.

Christuraj Alex June 30, 2021 at 6:28 AM Beautiful.