The Waste of a Hateful Life
Stone the color of my dismay,
and cold the words of my account,
the machinations I in sorrow, deny,
when I react with hast to those of hate,
who stand at the gates of my temple,
contesting with rage, while
their own incapacity to understand,
forges walls of impenetrable separation.
Chilled and absent, I stand motionless,
while tongues dance like flames,
fingers point spitefully and I in repose
watch aghast, silent pallid shock,
attesting their reverence to mocking blame
and chosen malice, they
trying to dismantle my brief,
my non-partisan discreet.
Once I would have fallen for their play,
their contentious affray,
but that just keeps them attached,
and I need no part in this match
of judgement’s throng, it belongs elsewhere,
far from my thoughts
and aught to just fade away
with my non-compliance.
Stone is the color of my response,
but kindness whispers otherwise,
perhaps I’m just no good enough yet,
and so I walk away, no investment,
no play for the likes of they,
who offend my very soul,
with lies I cannot abide,
cannot hide from my disappointment.
This is life, people blame,
and their games stink of perpetuity,
they in a turn-style life,
round and round in circles,
avoiding truths and lessons offered,
to fall to death in the same condition,
a rendition I have witness so many times,
and I cannot but feel remorse for them,
in their malice and blame
they see not the waste, the loveless haste
of a hateful life.
Tony DeLorger © 2018
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