The real tragedy.

A child can be forgiven
As he crouches in a corner
Afraid of blinding darkness.       It has the age                                   and the pure sacred innocence 
To be afraid ,
To dream the dreams of monsters
With bared fangs and gleaming eyes
Waiting in the murky shadows
To pounce upon his little self.


Unknown to the rituals of the world

He is allowed to cry
As tears fall without light 
and fear sets in his eyes.


But the real tragedy 

Of the world so vast 
Is when men are afraid of the gloom
Known to the illusion of beasts
And the writer of such stories.
They cower with fear tucked inside.

A twisted metaphor
The irony burning bright
When the musicians of screams
Get deaf with yodelling noise.


The tragic tale of sapiens 

bruised in heart and mind.
Planting the little seeds
That one day will grow
To cover the sky.
And then when blaze won’t be seen
And warmth not felt.
Then the people in streets
Lounging in bliss
Will then together say
They are afraid without light. 

The children are forgiven
for they are innocent in motive
unknown to the cruelty
the gloaming has to offer.
The terror among hearts,
Like beautiful playgrounds in the dark
with blood and gore
flesh and bones
guns and death
that symbolise the inequity
As the blazing bloom of black.

As one prefers to say 
The dark as a criminal mark
It is like a twisted form of truth 
For now the devils are afraid of the dark.

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2 thoughts on “The real tragedy.

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