Recession cutting us out of our inevitable goals,
The journey is far, long and hard
And still we find ourselves struggling from the start.
I seem to wither, I seem to cower,
I try to see the burning beacon on top of the tower,
I seem to drench, yet I feel the fire inside
I burst out in flames, in a cold November shower.
The song of of the robin, is heard no more,
Its the Swan that sings of better days of yore,
Bloody hands, yet more on the streets
Little pink papers as New Year's treats.
I ponder along, when all of it would end
And struggle I do,till my wits' end.
A flash of serene white; and I hear a voice,
From behind a green apple tree,
Give peace a chance, and leave the rest to Me.
(The words didn't find meaning until they came out, better rhyme and reason could have been achieved; then again, so could everything else in the world...Happy New Year)