Wretched Species

It's not the same, I realize,
But grief is either here or not.
Like pain, there is no in between.
I sit, my head down in my hands,
As would a man whose house
Has burned, suffused with grief
From having learned that here,
As everywhere, it seems, the mass
Of humans oozes inhumanity. They
Thrive on hate, and cannot be persuaded
To be decent, even when it's clear
That doing so would profit them.
Where should I go? I cannot say.
I sit, immobile, next to shattered
Hopes, much like the man who's
Lost his home (but, doubtless, still
Retains the urge to hate).



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 19 times
Written on 2020-11-04 at 17:42

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text