Searching the Wreckage

Sad.

 

Climbing angry branches in a forest of ache,

                I see no wonders; just burnt endings jutting

piercing ashes of hope like bones of war reaching . . .

                stretching towards a light conjured in defective minds.

 

Debt that crushed entire societies to dust

                fouls the air here like rotting remains of dead dreams.

Why try to hunt for life in this silent scrap heap?

                Every sliver of existence lies still and cold.

 

To wander this doomed manifestation of pain

                 is the bright folly of my persevering heart.

Still sifting through carnage hoping to find a spark.

                 Darkness seeping through my armor slowly; deeply.

 

I am becoming the emptiness that I breath.

                  Each fruitless search killing me more. Killing me more!

I envision my own ash and bone resting here.

                  Light in the distance beckons my soul to abort.

 

But I know that I will never abandon my search . . .

                  my fate as damned as the wreckage through which I trudge.

Reviews

[Frank F. Atanacio]

wow-- quick jabs of pain done up nicely in words Great poem