Is Our World Any Different? Pt.1

Inspired by Cormac McCarthy's "The Road"

 

South and further south into the unknown.

Deafened by the winds moan. 

Pierced by its coldness.

Impossible to keep an unyielding boldness.

There is no happiness except for the memories that occupy his head.

He lives for his son, a beacon of hope that keeps him from living amongst the dead.

He sleeps and falls into the light, but awakes into the dark.

A blackness that takes his soul and leaves its rotting mark.

A blackness that hurts his ears.

Impenetrable and the constant driving of his fears.

 

You forget what you want to remember, but remember what you want to forget.

 His memories are turning black, like that, which accompanies every sunset.

 The sun still rises, but the ash blocks out its light.

 If it weren’t for his son, he’d welcome death to escape all that fills his sight.

The sight of ruined buildings reaching out to the Godless sky.

 The sight of rotting corpses, knowing that will be you very soon when you die.

The sight of desolate roads and cities.

The sight of a child whose only source of happiness is in his fantasies.

 

My son, how does it feel in these times to be a boy?

A child raised in suffering, no memory of ever experiencing joy.

But maybe memory of a past long gone makes the suffering worse,

No hope we just dwell, living in reverse

But these fantasies of his, what will happen if we are free?

Will there be children wherever we get to, all questions of hope that he asks me.

 

South and further south into the unknown,

His son reeks of pain, but on his face it’s not shown

Each day feels more darkened than the last,

Blacker and blacker like his past

Like the way his son begins to speak.

Impatiently he asks what do we seek.

Are you going to die? <Silence>…are you?

What will happen to me if you do?