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Axel Mateti Poem
The world is weeping, can you hear it?
For the first child whose innocence we stole, for the first tree we cut, for the first soul we omitted..the earth wept......faint.....distant...unimportant
As a writer I know many words.....but none of which grasp the horror I feel towards the human condition, none of which can convey the pain we have subjected ourselves and our planet
The world is weeping, can you hear it?
Love is a word we created to spite ourselves, to contradict the evident, for it truly is the one thing we cannot fully assimilate as a species.
We claim we know how to love, we claim we know the intricacies of freedom and yet there is not one night where the billions of souls inhabiting our world are not faced with the atrocities of pain, hatred, loneliness, and self disgust
We have now created a world where it is common understanding that “To Live” is to be conflicted with eternal pain
How many children must we mess up? How many souls do we intend to damn? How loud must the earth weep, our people bleed, and the planet die before the human race understands that we fear losing a “humanity” we never had. That in order to free ourselves of this eternal damnation we must truly, and not superficially, understand what the words pain, love, and understanding entail.
Copyright © Axel Mateti | Year Posted 2019
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Details |
Axel Mateti Poem
Tearing through the dandelions she goes,
With acrid scent and smokey tendrils,
A flame incandescent that none dare oppose;
Blackened with soot—devoid of soul,
Behind the guile of beauty she hides,
Inconsistent and volatile s’cept for her pride,
Adoration has taken its toll;
If you listen to the crackle and pop of the flames,
They speak of an end they sing of her pain,
Rhythms and melodies spewing of her heart,
Threatening to destroy all she is apart;
To blue eyes electric and cool,
Smitten is she, now rendered a fool,
A victim of her devotion,
Subject to her emotion,
To a love she dares not deserve;
And yet Mother Nature smothers her not,
Clinging to a fantom all but forgot,
A flame of the hearth, a gentle kind of warmth,
Memories of a melody akin to her birth;
So rampant she runs, aloof to her ailment,
Through daffodils and merry golds martyred in statement,
“Death to all pretty things”;
Insecurities bubble, fester, and rot,
Helpless and content she confronts them not,
Succumbing to an image of a better her;
To blue eyes electric and cool,
Smitten is she, now rendered a fool,
A victim of her devotion,
Subject to her emotion,
To a love she dares not deserve;
Copyright © Axel Mateti | Year Posted 2019
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