3. Writ in heavy Script and hung only in the darker places

Writ in heavy Script and hung only in the darker places

  • S

    _Pain and darkness,
    Humiliation.
    Crushed, defeated, broken, bent.
    I ask for nothing from this life.
    And nothing I am often sent.

    I sit and watch
    These huddled masses
    Hurting each, in their own way.
    And ask does any senate member
    Truly try to give them their say.

    Cold
    Aching with a hunger
    Never filled by food or water
    I try to find a path to freedom
    For every Peltarch son and daughter

    Thinking
    Aching with thoughts unspoken
    Unable to be spoken
    Noone would believe them of me
    Battered, bruised. I’m bent and broken.

    The torch I bear
    Within my heart
    Burns less hot with each cold dawn
    And if I truly ceased to talk
    Would any of you really mourn.

    If a man
    I must be
    Then so be it, a man I will
    And with each word and song I write
    Into the streets my heartsblood spill.

    I ache
    I dream
    To make of Peltarch what I can
    No politician, I have not words,
    Nor what it takes to be that man.

    And so, from darkness
    Here, my words.
    A soft lament to my own weakness
    I stand to shout for Peltarch’s pride
    Whilst cleaving hard to my own meekness.

    Rise up
    Not in anger
    For anger only causes strife
    Rise up and claim your once great city
    Make for yourselves a golden life._

    The Shadow Poet