I am slate black I am slack.
Helpless, my genial spirits travail to survive,
Destiny, the mystery, on their efforts doth strike,
I lack ‘my’ talents; I miss the serenity I used to possess,
The tranquility of mind that annihilates stress,
I’m not out of my body, yet out of my mind,
I want to see, but I’m made blind.
I tried to succeed,
But every effort failed,
A worthless effort,
An endeavor in vain,
I was trampled and grounded,
I was ignored and abused,
I was ridiculed and raped,
I was played with and misused.
But still something deep within survived,
When my ‘self ‘ almost died,
My un-surrendering spirits,
like a handicapped athlete cried.
“Why didn’t it die?” to myself I said,
“I’d have been much better off, had it been dead”;
For fools have the gift of ignorance,
Powerful of abusive might,
But the most pathetic being
is the spirit that tries to survive.
This toil and turmoil,
The uncertainty in life,
Feels like a septic wound,
Being scraped by a knife,
No trust, no love,
No element of beauty,
A hardening of mind and heart,
Dryness all around,
That balmish ‘yester’
Is nowhere to be found.
