Freedom
Irony or twisted fate which
Deals death’s pain in life?
Sarcasm or perverse entity never letting
Us feel our being missed?
Don’t understand? Life means interpret.
Forty-two? Yes: almost lovely.
Pitter-patter tick the clocks,
Whittling our waking hours away.
Writhing agony embeds our future,
Silently weathering our storm;
Bloodless veins lie in wait
As torn muscles contract hopelessly.
Trust rolling clouds above and
Feet following the curved earth:
Reality is but a dream crying for
Freedom.
© Joseph Tradescent
Poems
Home
Add message to Message Board
View Message Board
Contact details!
Review the Terms and Conditions
