Surviving Or The Scorns.
How plain is the tone of bleakly mourners?
It's a red hot sword, ripped to pierce a clay;
of weak heart, crying at smiles of scorners–
As despair flood through streaming cheeks to stay.
Hope is a log of wood blown by the wind;
To the four heads of the world where time flies
and morrow seems a dark lens, faced by wind
of chances as sorrow speaks 'neath the skies.
How pale 'n' weak is the soul of a grieved soul?
Awful pleasure as Peter on the sea?
Or the torn of soft ties could make a whole?
Or brethren, what then is living to see?
The aged hair has seen hell, it made their eyes
dim like a thrust on the soil; such is life.
What is summer after winter, the lies
of time roll'ng or the time left to survive?
To survive is burning hot on cold coal,
Time left is to panic and mourn to scorns
by scorners. The earth could cajoled console
but what matters most, surv'ving or the scorns?
"words from the innocent mind"