What Pain We...

What Pain We Are Given

An piece written earlier this year that I took another look at, tidied it up a bit, and decided to add it to my ongoing anthology of poems which reflects true events that have taken place in my life during the past four years.

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Most suddenly, it doth not come in a rush

But a lingering moment when you are there..

And then, you are not.

The trials that sit and stare before us

Do not come as a strange surprise

They only look upon us

Strangers, upon uneven, wooden eyes

Then there are those which will come

From above, they cower below

As adults, we seem to know them

But alas, as children, we could never know

For this ode, I give before you

A story for one and old

There is no happy ending

Only words..

The never-ending, forever they shall last..

The most grievous of foes!

Until my end,

I will dip my quill

And I shall tip it to my lips

As I smear the remains onto a letter..

Perhaps a letter, you sent..?

I see the lurking shadow

Will you ever see what frightful eyes

That in your envy you brought forth?

The innocents found to your taste

How Innocence, like death

So alike, do ere long, lie.

To all, you say you love

But All fails inevitable

The ballast kept inside you

The mirror betrays you..

More often now than naught

Strangers will tell tales

Of the deeds you have so crafted

Such injurious seeds you have wrought!

You are the never-ending story

The misery which understands

A weight which one day will swallow

The silence you so desperately sought!

The end of this bent

A hard marrow slowly grows

Your weary tales, soon, as you..

I see your reflection,..

That of a miserable soul

I now watch,

But no longer will see me

As you become frail, parched and old

All forsaken, the utter pain you have fraught

From words of praise and applause

These ties will in time blind you

Those ties now fixed as wax, in a knot

The tales I write,

Soon, will uncover your face

Who also parades as thus

An eye is always watching

And all of those, unto others

How many, doth thou’st soul have it in you?..

To know the grief, they too, hath suffered?

But, for a time left

Seek the fortune,

Never yours to take

But now in your keep

And the pain you brought within

No longer will it sting

For no matter the cost of your golden carriage

Cannot take the words, nor the ink

Away from the writer of this pen

By Andrea W R Jones

From: United States

Website: https://www.linkedin.com/in/andrea-wr-jones-writer-poet-54413b1b