Saturday, November 12, 2005


Men born of pointless passion in the padded cell of life
Lead lives of desperation often visited by strife.
They squeeze love from a lemon and drink its acid juice.
They swim in stagnant, murky pools and seas of stillborn sluice.
The clouds of black oblivion, obdurate in their task,
Black out the burning sunshine in which all others bask.
Fond dreams turn nightmarish as they fail to meet success.
They are the men whom destiny deserted in distress.

Were they marked for failure as they slid from mother's womb?
Did some all-knowing deity so preordain their doom?
Or was it early setback which the stronger man repels
That chased them from the uterus where self-defeatism dwells?
Do they crave cloak of cowardice and banishment to blame?
Do they fear lofty pinnacles men climb to heights fame?
Is life's responsibility more than they can bear?
Do they breathe stench of hopelessness and filter out clean air?


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