Final Coin
a beautiful structure, so grand
where everything's balanced; so stand
atop it for it's smooth and secure
a place where everything's proportioned and pure.
overhead is open air and blue skies
full of dreams and devoid of lies
below is an ocean of green grass all around
the perfect place to take off into the clouds
fields of flowers as far as the eye can see
where children can laugh and let imaginations run free
filled with an aura of warmth and welcome
but they didn't know what was to come.
years down the road, it's not the same place
the once beautiful structure is now a disgrace.
rounded corners, dull edges, and water stains
worn spots from the wind and consuming pains
dirty brown skies of smog
dreams restricted by a Decalogue
dead weeds have taken over the fields
swallowed by a wet shadow, as the storm cloud's fury is unsealed
dried up skeletal rose bushes are all that's left
where the beautiful flowers once slept
and the once carefree children are now filled with despair
for all they loved was lost and dreams not there.
the girls are all grown and jaded
the laughter in their eyes long faded
the boys are now all drunk on their booze
too tired to go on but not wanting to lose
the aura is stained with feral abandon and rage
locked in their own self-built cage
and everything's coated with a thick, black, slimy sludge
all because they were stupid and misjudged
paint it on to emphasize the filth and decay
a painful decline into the deadly fray
it makes everything stronger and bitter with rot
as they put their final coin in their casino slot.
Melancholy Child
Here stood the last child of innocence to live
A lost child of the old age, nevermore to give.
They took his sight, though visions he saw.
They cut his strings and watched him fall.
They laughed at his words and spat in his face.
They said he was nothing but a disgrace.
A child of beauty, he was thrown to the dirt.
His artistic mind was becoming inert.
After a while he began to fear the worst;
His gift he silently cursed.
He believed all their lies, let his talent rust,
His life and future slowly turning to dust.
Looking around in silent despair,
He wondered how he had gotten there.
He had become a victim of mankind’s spite
For years he’d been walking through his mind’s version of night.
Twisted and worn, his excuses now are.
Because he’s alone, he’s traveled hard, he’s traveled far.
At the end of his life he died old and melancholy.
In remorse he realized his greatest folly.
If he had believed in himself all those years ago.
He would have stood tall instead of cowering low.
But he submitted to the people; his gift turned to ash and piled.
From birth to death he had always been a melancholy child.