Contempt for fear, faith, and Apocalypse's proxy resident.
Ending Life isn't moral: good or bad--but my sole duty.
Without any substance--more threats can't keep me silent.
One paycheck, too little to deal with the foes fenced community.
My worth--more than the World can give to prolong existence.
Fools lining up--to take my place: Heaven will miss my absence.
Forgotten tales, seldom sincere egoism aspires reverence.
Told from boys perspective, bedtime stories from mom.
Barbarian loftiness, revealed with much less reluctance.
Grew up falsely believing would make me a better man.
I still remember another she had read, and driven a boy mad.
This story, I then much liked, never thought to be true or sad.
Boy trainined to play games, never far from destitute kinship.
Father noticed his special talent on the soccer field.
Mom too boys to mass; Dad, votes for party membership.
A great player, but was left-handed. Worked on the cornfield.
He was careful to hide it--caught writing with his left arm.
Corporal punishment could only raised neighbors alarm.
Dad tightly bound boy's arm one night of drinking binge.
Secret police could be tip--fracture it--boy wore a cast.
Academy didn't accept lefties, bullied to the town's fringe.
Every boy was right handed, few welcome the outcast.
On a field trip, punish to used both arms--boy had drowned.
Father cut the boy's left arm--proud, showed his duty to town.
Confessing personal secrets, I'm caught thinking too loud.
From moralists, produced pity for Carpenter's parable.
Still, prepared for a bigger deluge from a darker cloud.
Because, mine decompose long before I sensed trouble.
Doubted could've given my son, my Dad's belated baton.
Running out of breath, couldn't traverse Life's long marathon.
Failure looks upon me--fixing her ruthless cold gaze.
When I thought, talking to myself--among the few elect.
Her glance never did blinked, always keeps up with my pace.
Once, success breast fed me in her confidence to select.
Quietly, though--I begun to drift away back into the crowd.
Whisper into God's ear: I don't think He will keep His word.
YOU ARE READING
I Am The Prism To The Light
PoetryMy poems are not a work of fiction, to the best of my knowledge; but, autobiographical. My world begins just at the very moment that someone utters the 4 letter Word. It's the same Word that at some point I did muttered while reading the apocalypse...
