It is not the fault of those whose life begins
For how can you pass blame on the powerless?
We all seek the meaning for the meanderings
We are and we beg understanding,
We want to understand and be understood
But all never find truth till time passes by.
We each in our own way make contributions,
We each find helplessness healthy
In sordid ways of fragility,
We look we see we touch
We feel but what’s in the heart,
Still be a quest for the paradise promised.
We’re all suffering darkness,
We don’t know why we’re here
Or where our true home is,
We analyse but can never find it,
Never walk within warmth
Never stroll the Gardens of Gods
We’re still screaming for
The innocence we are.
You ask too much!
You ask too much when in essence
The fragile response is to - brittle back,
Slap the hand that feeds for the cry of
Freedom we seek as all become
Prisoner to designs never previously warned,
What is this place we beg?
Why are we condemning each?
Why does the heart bleed so -
Yet we protract a stone face
To all we endure?
We flirt around edges
Or reasoning without dipping
Fully into whom we could be,
And it’s still pre-historic,
Still aged in all that we claim,
As humanity squanders and presents
Only lies; I’m die-ing inside,
Die-ing each time I try
Earth continues rotating,
Continues its bating of all that is good,
And all may be passing on
To the place they keep cleverly veiled,
We’ve lost all that we had
And your help,
Is just never there,
Never a care,
As solemnity beckons
A dead weighted heart,
We’re finding the truth
In our God; is death.
Michael J Waite 16th January 2012.