The Strangest Thing

Reads: 333  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

this was the first poem i ever wrote by myself. i think its in a book somewhere that a friend of a friend published, but im not too sure.

Questions rise & fall in scene,
Out situations not what is seen,
The sky doth shade what it should mean
Life passes through; has always been.

And so too we believe whats heard,
We listen apt; and quite absurd
Hurrendus notions we tend observe,
Yet nothing is done; we tail the herd.

Senses fail us, what can it mean?
Our trees still grow their luscious green
Aboard, ships sail us through this dream
But when boats sink, theres chill serene.

Peculiarity is stranger still
To perfect minds than what is real,
The fantastic elates the flawed's appeal;
Its there to escape from life's sick seal.

Up till our hearts give out, we scream,
To sheep, this passion seems obscene
We spill our conscience out; its clean
Their faces perplexed; stretched gaunt and lean.

Yet powerless before our gods,
We kneel and plead, we sorry sods,
And when in failure 'gainst such stacked odds
We stand, stark; still; we cannon fodds.

Submitted: June 27, 2008

© Copyright 2020 the great commacancha. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:

Other Content by the great commacancha