My shadows of hope

The burnt tree stands O so very still. Waiting in the ashes Of it's own demise. For the first drops Of rain to quench. This burning thirst That it feels deep Within it's Shriveled roots. But the tree Only has the stolid sun For company. And in this barren valley Where no rain falls. The tree waits, For the first whispers Of clouds in the sky. The burnt tree stands O so very still. Yet dying just a little Each day.

They are gone now into rich earth, made richer still, by this addition to her. Yet, play on, soft pipes, for more are yet to come, those oft unremembered, under tombstone dwelled. Their bones are yours, earth, but their stories are for us, to cherish and remember, like the sweet smell of spring begun. And odes will be written, as oft as their tales forgot. Smile, mother, for those brave children you've begot. When the world stills, in silent prayer, heads bowed, give shine to their medals, give voice to their tales, told and untold. For we are but the pale shadows, of those who've moved mount and hill. Living like automatons, remembrancers of those who truly have said to have lived.

A life dwells within Such a fragile little thing. The world seems so far away, a life about to begin. Even with eyes closed, it seems, that this wonder dreams. And somewhere, in that cocoon, a tiny heart furiously beats.

Laugh, my friends. Laugh with me, laugh for me, because I dream your dreams. Regret not, my friends, for that is foreign to me, Regret not my passing, tis just my long deserved sleep. Rejoice, my friends, rejoice in my life, that took your dreams, and put them on that sliver screen.

Trapped in a glass cage by mother and son, the songbird stays so silent. He never thought he'd become just a pet and that the world would get so violent. Now they poke and prod and jeer at his pain. The very same people who said that he would be king. No kindness now for the poor songbird no tender caresses, only a clipping of his wings. He was given a job, and he did it well. He repeated everything they asked of him. And now he is blamed for being their voice. For protecting cruel prince and queen. Fly away little songbird, break that prison of silence and glass. May you finally find peace. May you rediscover yourself at last. ---------- For Dr. Singh

In war they buried us, for the honor of our mothers. In peace they held us, until we could walk. They were friend and philosopher, and a shoulder to cry on. They gave us strength, direction and made us real men like them. So for a day, I pause and think, and in thinking, am made afraid. For I walk in the shadows of giants, whose stature I can never reach. I can only look upon them and aspire, that one day I will be a father too. And maybe I will be just as much a God for my son, as my father was to me.

Vengeful, wrathful wraith What hast thee wrought. Upon penitent people, a pestilence Upon the city of God, a pox. From seas to ships, from sailors to cities spreading, from living to dead converting. Why this cataclysm. Consigned to conflagration, the city of God. O education of God, o fateful weave, those who leave this plane, a wave of the faithful, offered unto thine Sanctuary. May they rest in peace. Deserted cities, dire in strait, see the dying in their droves, the walking dead, dropping like flies. Give them peace, o divine justice. Give forgiveness to the dear departed.

Stay your hand, ghost of mine, do you not see, O eater of dreams, That you have consumed all there were, And now I have none left, for you to eat. Gone are the bright scapes, Of youthful hopes, and innocent dreams. Of a life, seemingly so long and invulnerable, Where I could do no wrong and the world was mine. Gone too, are the dark torments, of childish fears and sudden vulnerability. Of story born ghouls and demons, Of what hid in cupboards and under beds. Gone are the first flashes of attraction, Of a sublime need for acceptance, of the giving, and receiving, of a need To be more than me. To be a we. Down your gullet have gone all the above And so many others beside. Now I toss, An aimless, dreamless land, bereft of all. No hope, no despair, no love. So stay thine hand, vile consumer. You have taken all, from Morphean refuge. Only the night beckons, and my sleepless eyes gaze, into her black, endless abyss.

And there, upon that crimson slope, did I see. Young lions emerge from the bodies of sheep. Amongst the dead and the dying, swords thick and arrows flying, there, upon that slippery crimson slope, did I see, Gods made from men in a place that looked like hell. How many a young eye's ferverent dream was stilled never again to see or be seen. Yet, they charged up that crimson slope, yelling a common scream. Let me live! For a few moments of glory, however fleeting. Let me feel my heart beat, let me give all I have here, let me live, if only in the songs of my fellow soldiers, once a year in a dirty tavern over dirty glasses. Let me live as a God of war emerged from this sheep's skin I have worn. Let them tell how I fought as we charged up that slippery, crimson, slope.

A rattle for the child and a bullet for the son This is how wars are won. A rattle for a child and a gun for the man. Too young to understand. A rattle for the child and death for the land. Too tired to make a stand. This is how wars are begun. This is how wars are won. But even the sun setting on burning pyres. Is not the end of man's desire. Even in death, there is no peace. Even in death, martyrs are raised And soldiers recruited from the fresh faced. This is how wars are won. This is why the wars go on. This is how wars are begun. This is why wars never end. @jonnalagadda.rajeev

Have you ever held a flame in your hand And though she burns, you could never let go. Because even as she turns your marrow to ash You know she's there, and you'll never be alone. That flaming pain, that constant sorrow ash in your lungs, burning your shadow. But you pay that price, willingly, for you'll never be alone, upon the morrow. Till both collapse into dust, slumbered embers till moon and sun become cold lovers entwined, till nothing of man remains, not even iron bones, till that final shuddering gasp, you'll never be alone.

The wind over the stone, the earth over buried bones, whisper to those still breathing "Do you remember those who are gone?" Whose names, upon the winds, ride whose faces, in dusty corners, hide Who yearn to earn their warmth again Do you remember, or are they truly gone?

Never again, to where the heart was slain at the altar The sword was bent afore the rose Age dictated and blood listened. Never again, to the den Wolves, all around. A pack within a pack, their skins crack and fall. The betrayer's horns now a crown wear. And the hapless bumbler wears the chains and weilds the sword. Painted as both defender and villain the fool is used and discarded as seen fit. A chess piece, a pawn, a slave, a salve. The board is just a place now, not home. Never again, to the bending of the knee Never again, to the palace of chains Never again, to hope against hope Though this be a lonesome road. Ride. Into darkness, into hell, Anywhere but there. Ride. For blood and beating heart. Anywhere but there.

Swing swing swing look at him swing. Under the tree in the shade. Swing swing swing his lifeless eyes look at me as he smiles. Swing swing swing I can't run but he can go where I go. I carry him in my mind in eyes I see him swing. I can't run I can't hide Cannot forget Cannot rectify. So I swing I swing too I swing with him In the shade Under the tree.

The moon passes by, upon wind slow And a contented head lays, upon pillow. A child’s dream, of knights and villains, Shall pass and melt, before sun’s rising heat. The moon passes by, upon wind slow And a furrowed head lays upon his pillow. A boy’s choice, to defend home and crown, afeared, what action when horn is blown? The moon fitfully passes, upon wind slow, And a fevered head rests, upon strange pillow. A man’s duty done, a crest, a hill, a breach defend But his brothers still lay, upon sand, till bitter end. And under it too, under Lord’s command. Where no moon shall pass and no wind shall blow, What sight their bloodied eyes see, none shall know.

I wear this chain I forged in life I made it myself, carried it far. And now I see it's grim scale, link after link, yard after yard. Weighing me down, into soul's abyss pulling me down under the weight of regret drowning me in bitterest sorrow, I struggle, but how does a man float, when all he knows is hate. I wear this prison each and every day, each waking hour and restless night, I fight for it follows me and slithers over my skin a million insects, a thousand snakes, I fight. I wear this chain, I am this chain, I am my own worst enemy. What terrible poetry then, what great justice, that with mine own hands I consign myself to fear.

Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy Write me a love song and I'll sing to you of agony. Show me my heart's love and I'll spin you a comedy of errors and terrors, how they all hated me equally. They laugh at me. All these faces in my shadow stretching from now to forever ago. They seen inside of me, they know how I work they know what makes me tick, in darkest secrecy. They all hate me equally. Show me a sunrise and I'll tell you of the dying man, a child he was once, innocent and with a plan. Show me my heart and I'll laugh at that useless thing, Never mine to command,a snake to bite those that tried to be close me. It hates me equally. You aren't alone in your condemnation and you aren't misunderstood in your frustration. I see that look that says I could be better and you know but I know that you know that I'll never grow and be more. You and the he that I could be, you hate me equally.

He smells of distant lands, this stranger, I can feel the sand he trails, he smells familiar, but now he also smells of death. His eyes seem to have seen, things that I cannot understand. His hands have done things, I know, that no man should do to another man. Who is this man who stands, Who's strength is a sham, a token, but I can sense inside him the yawning gulf, this soldier is strong, but so completely broken. This is not the same boy who left with nary a care in his head, and now he's come back, and all he thinks is why am I alive and why are they dead. He seems of distant lands I know He smells of fire and death I know There's nothing left of the man before There's a broken stranger standing at the door. But through callused hands and teary eyes I see my master I see the boy I run to him, to fill with joy Where, in his heart, I can sense the void. So he can hold me and let go Of the dogtags chained around his soul.

Life is in the grains of sand that let fragile sprouts push them aside. Life is in the moss that clings to the sides of moist brick walls. Life is in the first  breath, the first cry of a newborn child. Life is in the hands of the young, held in the hands of the very old. Life is not in the blood that is spilt by the violence and hate of man. Life is not in the little bodies that are still washing up on foreign shores. Life is no longer in the hearts and minds of those who would wish harm unto others. Such people are dead. As dead to God as they are to the rest of humanity. Such people, no matter how much they yell will never have a place in whatever awaits. Life. Life is in the mercy of those who stand in the cold to comfort the lost. And give them what little they can to replace their homelands, distant gone. Life is in the tears of the those who saw the devastation that hate can wring. Life is the only thing we have, worth possessing. Not the phone we carry, nor the money...

As scarred as she is scared She's still out there All alone, except for her hate, Still alone, somewhere. Burning, on the verge of a prayer, burning, and no helps her, only stares. Just another pyre after all, in the crowd, Burning all by herself, somewhere. For he, who was prophesied, never came, was never there. A hollow lie propogated She searched everywhere. What she found were false idols The dark coated in gold. They hurt her through lying deception They twisted her mind, took her head. Now, in the end of all things, she stands Alone in a sea of burning people, she stares. Still searching for the lie, for him, she stands Alone, out there, somewhere.

What do you call someone with no self determination, only a great capacity for self-recrimination. Swallowed by the sea, is he accepted, this alien? What do you call he who is dead but breathes? An abomination? Cyclical, he knows his thought process, ups and downs, changes and retaliation. The perfect porcelain mask to hide the old scars, this self-mutilation. Broken by the scaffold, he hangs, himself by a thread he holds together. In silence he drowns, their voices so loud this painful immersion, his submission their mission, without intermission, no intervention, they aren't interested in his health or well being, just his reflection in that broken mirror, pole position. He is fine as long as he sits straight, thinks straight No matter how chaotic inside, As long as they can claim his contrition. Tie a bow around his neck and call his chain a blue ribbon.

To make true this lie, that I've forgotten what your voice sounds like, I walk. Into dust and oblivion, my only true companion, the shadow I once sought, I walk. Into the mouth of the beast denying it the chase, denying myself any escape, I walk. Soon will be gone, The empty bottles and burnt ends, my footprints in the sand, for towards my own end, I walk.

Do you know how thin the skin lies  on a monster with a man's eyes. How deep his claws can cut when all he wants to do is hurt. When he lashes out from left to right with not a worry about who's on his side. When all he cares about is to burn this world down, which doesn't turn just the way he wants it to, which doesn't dance to his tunes. Who mourns the death of the man inside, what do you call such a beast? When has it seen naught but wants and needs which higher calling did it ever heed. Fall it must, such a monster, into the dark abyss of it's own making. A tomb deep enough to drown out the sound of its terrible wailing. Nameless, friendless, alone to the end, misheard and bitter, to the very end.

Deep into the horizon the sun has gone and sunk. No more sails or sea for me my sailing days are done. No more salty mist on the wind no more friends and fun. Not for me the sailing life, my sailing days are gone. The cannons are all silent the plunder is all gone. All the oceans are now charted and I'm worn to the bone. A new day may sometime dawn a generation may soon come. Unknown seas and skies beckon but I won't be the one. For under six feet of cold ground I'll rest when I die. Heavy though the tombstone above peacefully, I will lie.