Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-5239282-20140601191419

I don't think this really requires an explanation. But I feel this poem can be taken two ways: Either a dreary but true story with one deep, resounding moral; or an inspirational tale that teaches to live it up, for nothing can ever stay golden. Enjoy:

Death dies in the end,

When even time cannot mend,

And your ashes mix with that of a dear friend.

As the trends slowly unwind,

And governments are in a bind;

Our fate has been signed.

People cling to their God,

Hoping to find shelter underneath the wings of the flawed,

Only to realize it’s all just a fraud.

They walk by faith,

But pray to the wraith.

United by faith they may stand,

But the true holy land

Is under the government’s brand.

Exploiting the people’s belief,

They dispense fake relief,

And spit upon the weak wallowing in their grief.

But everything must finish life’s race;

Everything must fall from grace.

And as the governments tumble,

Against God, a resounding grumble.

With them, Christ will crumble.

You think this is a theocracy?

That’s just hypocrisy.

On the brink of war,

A great flood will pour,

And amidst all the gore,

A lone child will find solace beside the whore.

A secret oath they’d have swore,

Teaching the child to abhor.

Although the bodies will drop with a thud,

People will lose much more than mere blood.

Individuality, and free will;

The carnage may still,

But such precious values shall forever spill.

Most will fall, but some may glide,

Using the trail of corpses as their guide.

They will feed solely on their pride,

And among their companions, they will confide.

From death’s face, they will hide,

But sin is on the inside;

With their innermost feelings, they’ll collide,

And their ascension will be denied.

Right to the end, after dark they’ll stride:

And with their cliques, their corpses will be dried.

Yes, even balloons must pop,

And kites must tear.

Nothing has been set in stone

Except for the innocent’s bone;

In the mourning air, their ashes were blown.

But it’s only when death finishes its dance on the grave

Does it become its own slave;

A destructive act to finally satisfy its crave.

When the graveyard stands soundless,

Its size boundless,

And hope for the future is groundless:

Only then does death die.

And as for me,

My sweetest friend,

I will glide.

What about you?

To glide on in ignorance or embrace the mourning air on your descent:

The choice is yours.

Just bear in mind,

That everybody dies.

Even death. 