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Feb 3, 2010

12) Disease

Though the spirit is elevating,
I do look out the window
And the sight strikes me of an epidemic
The twisted face of a widow....

There lies a battlefield stained with tears,
Where men simply lie drowned in fears
And the face is upturned in grief,
Teary dewdrops like that of a morning leaf;
There is one in sorrow no one knows the source of,
One in pain no one knows the meaning of,
One in worry for the one in sorrow no one knows the source of,
One in worry for all three.
One upset over the rotten fruits of sweet labour,
One upset over the species of the fruit of no labour,
One I feel I have upset with a lecture,
One who's moodiness is only a conjecture.
Why do we drown ourselves in hurt,
When there is really nothing curt?
Why do we sleep with frowns on our heads,
When we never even toss and turn in our beds?

And such stupidity, such complication
Is a contagious disease,
For when one has shed the slightest tear
Not a single person seems to be at ease.
Only I am happy in a land of the dead,
A yellow flower in a sea of red,
For it seems to be that I am immune,
To the grief with which others are commune.
Sadness spreads like an infection
And ruins characters built to perfection
And it is only we who give in
To the temptation of hurt originated from false sin.


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