Picture taken from Pinterest. Emotional pain, by Helena Wierzbicki
Day in day out, empty halls slowly crowd,
Hollow faces filled with sorrow, feeble
Hope’s that tomorrow. I hear them whisper,
Like shiv’ring flowers in the wind, like ants
Marching into burrows. It hurts me not
I tell myself as time ticks tactlessly
In numbers. Oh God! it hurts, it hurts, help
Me please. Someone, anyone, help me. Won’t you?
But God is silent, and silence is dead,
And the dead do not rise. I close my eyes
And plug my ears to pain, hoping to scare
it off –it lies in bed in every bay,
It lurks from dark recesses, calls my name
And points me the way, where roots grow deep,
Where ideals of right and left, love and hate
And good and evil don’t matter. ‘Tis all
Smoke-and-mirrors –man and his greatness is.
He’s nothing without his boulder uphill
While God is silent, and silence is dead.
Yet, there are angels with ev’r tender hands.
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