Story of optimism and gloom,
Of green grass and dusty paths,
Of merriment and tears,
Of academia and fame,
Of sex and virginity,
Of debauchery and sanctity,
Of boys and men,
Of girls and women,
Of music and stillness,
Of company and solitude,
Of love and hatred,
Of loyalty and conspiracy,
Of roses and thorns,
Of envy and esteem,
Of friends and foes,
Of babies and abortions.
Of births and deaths,
Of dialogues and strikes,
Of water and wine,
Of unga and cocaine,
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The Dying God
What is this god we behold?
His worship; Justice, in awe we hold.
With almighty hand he rules, weighbridge firmly held,
On which each soul is gauged.
The acted, the spoken, the thought.
I understand not, what he entails,
If god he is, he surely should know
An icon abused, a resolve beaten,
a title tarnished, a god defiled;
Is all I see, of a god once boundless.
Your enemy dear god, is winning.
A giant hand lingers around me, with black harsh skin and murky long nails,
It presses against my nose, and i wheeze,
“god of justice, are you blind to see?
almighty hand with a weighbridge held, are you there to save?
Articulate silence replies.
A smell of futility, a touch of anger, a rhythm of resentment, a taste of revenge,
A heart too heavy, to wait for a dying god.