Mortals are very good at being victims, one way or another. We always seem to find someone else to blame each time something unpleasant happened to us. Not thinking even for one moment, that we could have had something to do with the outcome, we remain blind. So we are forever the victim of life’s cruel sense of humour.
Unfortunately, the truth is hard to take and we are always resistant to its simplicity. We create our circumstances and the obstacles that befall us are the very lessons we need to grow. Blame, therefore, is a travesty, a comfortable deflection of truth.
We forever cry ‘why me?’ and the universe stares back coldly, for it’s by our hands alone that circumstances arrive as they do. So-called perpetrators are just the messengers of well-intended learning. Thus the following poem. Hope you enjoy it…
Mortal cries echo in an endless cosmos,
pain and malaise a human comfort,
as shattered stars in bleak refrains
utter catastrophe in silent rage,
and we mortals hold to spent ideals,
paradigms and the pointless tears of past,
woven in time’s fine threads,
in dull lack-lustre impending death
where such moments are fleeting.
Waif-like effigies attest our solemn pleas,
hard done by in life’s cold decrees,
yet our bleating words are so lost in time,
a universe detests this common rhyme
as a blatant cry of weakness,
where the mantle of truth seeks not
a place in our human rooms,
rather an attire worn only seldom
in our ruse of suffering and victimisation.
Look to the skies, eternal compromise,
no right or wrong gives favour,
life exists and in balance savours every moment,
every life exhumed from the mire we create
becomes the fate of survival,
swallowed hard by pride and jarring truths
that strip our flesh from bone
and finally, we know the whispers we adhere,
potential is life, the very sphere of reality.
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