Walking Stick

In a world where we forget our roots, the echos of the painful cry of the elders should pierce our heart so that we can give them a shoulder to lean to.

Like a cuckoo that lost its song
I go on searching my stolen soul
But my screams echo for a while
And vanish in the corners dark

Born with a bundle of boon
Brought up with silver spoon
I thought I would win forever
But now I feel I won't, ever !

Who am I to feel so proud
My eyes blur like a cloud
All my bones get weak
My voice freezes as death

Alone, with a walking stick
I waver to move my limbs
Waiting for the final blow...
I'll lose that too, which I stick to

Reviews

[Michelle Farren]

This poem is very well written. We do tend to forget about where we truly come from and we always start to get more curious about our roots when we get older. People always take things for granted and don't realize what the people of our past went through to get us through to where we are today.

[Jaleel Amayur]

Right from my heart let me express my earnest pleasure for encouraging me to write more as you are the fist person to review my poem. I am a novice here. thank you for your scholastic review.