poetry

Until Death

Only in the gentleness of love,

will I ever find solace.

Yet it’s existence is unknown.

True, every man is alone.

Born thus.

Dies thus.
Could I ever find,

if God’s mercy were bestowed,

sincerity in the heart of man?

I do not think I can.
Covered by layers deep,

thickets and forests, jungles and sand,

there is the willowy child,

betrayed, forsaken and beguiled.

Now voiceless,

until death.
Dated sometime in 2000.

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