Cow Face
One Heck of a Guy
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This Thing Called Human
This is a large poem in five parts. Each is like its own poem, but they will share a common syllable count, length and rhyme scheme. It details the stories of five different people, all of whom have been effected by the many systems in life. One creates them, one defends them, one accepts them, one fights them, and one is destroyed by them.
The Empty Man
Lucifer Reed
Was blinded by greed,
The avarice in his heart.
Intent to win
Was how he'd begin
Every day of his lost life.
With practiced scorn,
At six in the morn,
He'd shut up his wailing clock.
Breakfast was next,
With dressing betwixt
His home and his Mercedes.
Madly he'd drive,
For speed he would strive,
As he charged along to work.
He felt so bleak,
Yet he would not speak
Of that which was driving him.
He raced inside,
Pausing once to chide
A worker who stopped to think,
Then grabbed the phone
And began to drone,
Mindlessly, at his client.
When came the dusk,
His now-empty husk
Would make the drive back to home.
Once there, he sat,
Rested from combat,
And wept for his emptiness.
The Dying Warrior
Gunfire all 'round,
Blood drenching the ground,
Upon this pillow she fell.
Her eyes open,
Jaw clenched with the pain,
She knew the end was to come.
She shot, she killed,
She emptied, she filled
Holes in the mindless conflict.
Yet on it droned,
'Til the earth near groaned,
Its belly full of the drink.
Now enemies
She could no more see,
A rest for her weary eyes.
Gently she smiled
As her grief unpiled,
Leaving her for once at rest.
So here she stopped,
Her life to be lopped
Prematurely, far too soon.
Tools she decried,
But machine she died,
Defending the status quo.
What was her name?
It's all just the same
When you're but a faceless corpse;
Unknown, unmourned,
Neither loved nor scorned,
Just a number on a chart.
The Decadent Slave
A charming face,
A leisurely pace,
A spirit to break steel chains;
The first, it glowed,
The second, it showed,
The third was not to be found.
He lived his life
For years without strife,
Without any sign of stress.
A bachelor,
With style demure,
No-one was his enemy.
Within his mind,
Everything was fine,
Nothing deserved any change.
And thus he lived,
Being pressed and sieved,
But all the time unknowing.
They all would wave
To Decadent Slave,
Modernity's role-model.
He who but slept
While his world just kept
Shifting without his consent.
He had his toys,
His "grace" and his "poise,"
All which kept him well suppressed.
Within life's race,
His was one more face
Doomed to be forgotten.
The Guttered Mother
A life broken,
Never to give in,
Despite the pressure on her.
In the headlights
Shining from her fight,
She'd challenge her fate always.
A life guttered,
Though never interred;
No nail would meet this coffin.
From day to day,
With nothing to pay,
She purchased her existence.
A life to save
With the love she gave:
She drew her babe to breast;
Then turned away,
For she could not say
The words she felt in her heart.
A life to lose,
If she were to choose
To submit to her despair.
If not for John,
Her barely-born son,
She might have taken this path.
A life to live:
With so much to give,
She will struggle through it all.
If she survives,
Saves both of her lives,
She shall be forever named.
The Dead Warrior
As two eyes shut,
The quiet was cut
By soft tears, sobs from the side.
Though not of joy,
They still did destroy
The silence which all despised.
Stephen Morence
Had hated silence,
Had called others to action.
Now laid in grave;
In life he had craved
A world where all people speak.
It had been said
He fought for the dead,
For those who could not be saved.
He simply laughed,
Those times he was asked,
Said that was his very war.
A final sigh,
A murmur of "Why?"
And the soft wheeze of his breath.
For all the pain,
He fought not in vain,
But he could not win alone.
For sixty years,
He battled the "fears"
Of bigots, liars and crooks.
The tragedy
That only some see:
He was of a dying breed.
< Message edited by Cow Face -- 3/1/2010 14:57:50 >
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