Category: poetry kinda

Ode to endings

Thus passes another year
another month, another day
racked with fear and ending so far in May-
a fitting ending bringing with it calls
for a futile disconsolation: one for the faults,
falls, flaws of each examination
forced under paper and pen.
But at the end? Only in our own ignorance must we
remain – lest we crack our minds juggling
between grades of tolerance or of merit.

Thus passes another year
the third of four to end this
devilish sojourn: one began in dreams
and the naive nature of newborn children;
but in beginning, quickly ending as a dream ill-bidden
in the night – tainted by the tendrils of untested
maturities. To Them: what light is it They see at the end
to cost so much to make virtue bend into crooked
spires – mere steps up to Their peak of ambition?
What sums do pride and arrogance offer as a ransom
to such degree? To what end will our trust in them be?
Innocence often laces those early temptations
to stray the path in tiny steps; little cracks, but
with habit’s perseverance, and time, heralds
malice to greet our Innocence’s disappearance
in the unholy abyss of our own making.
What can the Law offer on its laureled crown
when its virtues are all but laid down bleeding
at the altar? Must it be a kingship unnaturally
won with Virtue hanging only by the crimson drippings
of the assassin’s blade? Would that it were better
if these stirrings stirred us only in our grave.

Climb, climb, and climb! Beginnings are no test
of mettle – all start with nothing but friendships
so innocent that, when cut, bleed only jests. Grit
often lies unperturbed ’til provoked
and, when roused, unyielding to those evils.
Trust yields folly and allies, when allied, abandoned
go their own way. Must there be such a myth as Integrity
now where ill deeds go under the guise of its complicity?
Call it not integrity then, but vanity. O, vanity –
precious lists of titles and deeds commended,
of names dropped, and posh socials attended?
Lay them as glitter and gold, and around your crown adorn
as your reward, yet all not worthy enough to earn one thorn.

Thus passes another year
one in three that were and one that will be.
Dissolved now are those persons that we knew
before so early under masks of acquaintance.
Friendships half in bloom but nipped away by
examination or by professors’ recreation.
Happy are those who live above all the struggles of the rabble,
for theirs is the glory and praise as our school’s preamble,
while we scurry along the table’s edges fighting over scraps.
Yet let not empathy crawl on their lips, or limp on top of their other
sympathies to the fallen. Mere words less deeds are but trees uprooted
and drifting among the weeds on the tides of their many vanities.
Now, Time and Toil have torn away our masks and to our
horror, revealed those who had or no disguise.