I cannot hear to write when so many voices speak.
At first I was a champion of the poor and of the weak.
Treading lightly for fear of hurting you, I reined my conscience in,
but now I find that I care not and so my healing must begin.
Tales of olden days gone by that never will stay dead
and when I think that all is lost, there is more that can be said.
Pray, tell me of your fears and I will seek to write them down,
and at night when I fall asleep, I think that I shall drown,
in the deep and murky darkness of tears that I have shed.
They seep inside my soul and consume me with such dread,
from all the voices I have heard as misery does take hold,
and of days of yesteryear and of a sun of burnished gold.
Oh, I hear you and I see you but not as individual souls
and whatever has been written can be found on parchment scrolls.
Your life was never joined with mine, we have seperate identities
and no matter what our faith is, we both fill the world with cruelties.
Wisdom, we will never learn and so our burdens shall remain.
Was man ever sound and whole or was man just born insane?
Shelby I. Courtland
©2014 Shelby I. Courtland