Poetry, as yet untitled

[kiya]

This is My age
My children
(Each and every one of you an imperishable star).

Your prophets cry that all things are upended
Your families broken
Your poor too wealthy
Your powerful overthrown.
Your barbarians are at the gates
And the downtrodden dare to speak.

Bewail the horrors of My age
The overwhelming chaos of choice
The terrible freedom that let you come to Me at last.

You come to Me alone
As you must
Leaving your kin behind to come to Mine.
You come to Me to build
With the full strength your solitude wreaks
In defiance of prophets and kings.

This is My age
And yet you build
Mighty, despairing works
Aspiring to what is long-lost
In the memory of My sand.

Comments

Poetry, as yet untitled

[morningwolfe.livejournal.com]

It says everything, IMO.

[thene]

...yes. This.

[thene]

(and sometimes it goes 'Hi, I'm here to make things complicated.')