When a Soul Dies

 

 

When a Soul Dies

When a Soul Dies

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Within crying for mercy, nobody listens,

nobody cares after all we are just mortals,

born to live and die. We think people care;

we hope they do, often praying that they

do. In the end everyone is really out for

themselves, uncaring, unfeeling

simple humans.

 

All the trials and tribulations we experience,

some of us grow wealthy, while millions of

us grow poorer by the day. We struggle to

survive, we follow the rules, we pray to our

maker hidden behind symbols, blood dripping

to show us mercy, a savior, a leader, with

promise of a miracle to show us the way to

reach their throne, somewhere on a

spiritual plane.

 

Men of the cloth with rippled faces, having

us believe that salvation is ours for the asking,

some partake of it, asking for mercy and

forgiveness, others pass by and drop alms in

the beggar’s plate, the priest drinks the wine,

wipes the rim, passes it on to the sinners who

smirk while dipping their fingers in holy water

and caressing their hearts with a sacrament of

doubt. The alter boys follow the holy man into

his den of purple haze as he guides his servant

into his chamber bed.

 

Oh yes, the soul keeps asking why was I born,

a lost child trying to make it in this world of

the fallen, I’ve gotten back up, fought the good

fight, but still who the hell cares, nobody gives

a plug nickel, but for themselves, hidden behind

their own mask of self doubt and fears.

 

Crying from cradle to the grave, trying to make

something of myself, I feel’s left out, once a man

of worth to some cause or thing, even a family

maybe. Then when the axe fell, my world

disintegrated around me, leaving me alone,

scared, angry and bitter. I looked back over

my shoulder, seeing what I left behind.

Pain and loss forevermore I will never be the same.

 

A dual mask is worn, taken off only to show the

scars left from burning tears burned into my flesh,

tears that flowed and dripped to the ground like

nails from a rivet gun, penetrating my world of

the lost and tragic player, the purest of jesters,

I am simply now a dull player on a stage of

characters cast to play the fool, once a knight,

now simply a dreamer wrapped in dreams that

once where real, felt, hungered for, a star was

born, then faded back into the universe of

stardust and deep sorrow and darkness.

 

© Copyright Vincent Moor. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

 


Comments

When a Soul Dies — 1 Comment

  1. I hope this lament was expressed and was deeply felt, I’m sure, but that it’s receded and that your expert ability to rise and see the light has triumphed, my dear friend. I speak as one who has ‘been there, done that’, as you know. This world needs champions who know it well. Hugs and love, fellow passenger. ~ Nellieanna

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