Requiem for a mad man

Oldie but goldie, Poetry

A love-scorched scoundrel,
He once was
Who sung songs about
the sons of the land,
Who slew themselves
For abstract dreams,
Which they could not grasp.
For they were castles
Made of thin air.
Never really there
To touch,
Or to shield them from hail.
Yet, they worshipped
Each dusty vale
Of one decadent land
Of one decadent people
Who drank at the altars
The blood of their progeny
To gratify the Moloch
To win favour & immortality.
He never bowed.
He never bled,
Until his people,
Immortal & bewildered,
Fled from their Moloch,
Bled in the streets,
& then bowed before another,
After trampling the troubadour’s
Feeble, lifeless body,
Pummeling his bones & muscle & gut
Into a single shapeless,
Bleeding mass of raw flesh.
He never wondered about dreams
That these men dreamt of,
Nor about the tales
That these women spun
To keep one man
While eyeing another.
Now, he knew.
Their praise was mere verbosity,
They never knew
What it felt like to drown
In sheer anonymity,
& then be lifted to the sky
By the echo of platitude.
He knew, now.
Alas, he cannot live again
To retell his sorry tale
To another people,
That shall trample him underfoot,
When he rallies to arouse their ardour.
With the words gilt & silver
They worshipped a god
that lay in obscurity unless
He provided them with plenty,
Which now lay
At the foot of another,
Blood-soaked in his blood.
His faith was their saviour
For they had none.



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