Unyielding: A Collection of Poems

The Cruel Sting
The cruel sting of death,
With its blade plunging inward
Is never-ending


Boldness
March on, faithful soul.
Take hold of the gift of life.
Be ye ever bold.


Pain is Fleeting
The pain is fleeting,
Even in a marriage lost.
Hope comes soon enough.


The Love of Life
There's a certain pride to the folly of a love not sought;
For the ones who dreamed a dream but never fought.
The kind of love that no amount of money ever bought.
Surely it's what the Lord spoke of as he verily taught.

I saw an old man once, staring at his love with care,
Even though she knew not that her lover was even there.
He had loved her for years, before the graying of his hair.
His feelings could never suffer the ravages of time to wear.

But he never acted on the feeling which left him reeling;
Apparently there was no courage for his heart's dealings.
He watched as his love's happiness turned to squealing,
As another man pulled out a ring and got on to kneeling.

For years, he loved her so—lost in the toils of life's flow.
Even when the bride's cheating husband had left her so,
He could not work up enough conviction to let her know
The great extent his love for her could get up and go.

The solemn years passed, but the love never faded,
Even as the quiet world became more cruel and jaded.
And still, his feet could in no manner be persuaded.
To talk to the love he could no longer see unaided.

The old woman died last week, having been full of years.
I paid my respects to the maiden alongside her peers.
And as we all remembered her fondly with great cheer,
I caught the old man from afar, wiping away his tears.

I never saw the old man again after that painful day;
Whether he found love again I guess is not for me say.
Yet his path in life was true—he never went astray;
'Twas better than to have never found love along the way.


Unyielding
Words without purpose are those least deserved to be heard,
That my rhymes have higher meaning is a concept quite absurd.
Yet I'm absorbed in myself enough to give this trick a go;
One might say not to drag toes, but to sow truth with the flow.
Is there anything worth saying before I take my trip down below?

There's a commotion in my soul that's ripe for promotion;
Why else would I reveal my soul to be roaring like the ocean?
I have an affinity and devotion to the forward motion
Of lurid poetry that reveals how I take a simple notion
And corrupt the beauty of words into a poisoned potion.

My lyrics are bathed in love, from the crafting of my hand.
Like a lonely soldier marching to the tune of an indy band;
I march to the sound of a strange beat on crooked little feet.
I pray at night that one day, dreams and goals might I meet:
Before I roast asunder in the Hellish world of a Devil's heat.

I hold no affinity for the toils of life, only the wielded knife
That time likes to twist and shank to the scent of death so rank.
I'm too wired on a rhyme to pay attention to the prime of my time,
Content to let the good years pass while apathy reaches critical mass.
I have useless words stored in my broken heart en masse.

There's a sadness to my words, but it's only because of a life worth living,
And how much heartache has been levied to me that I should be giving
Thanks to the good Lord in my penultimate season of thanksgiving
For I know what happiness is, and how it has finally left me so.
Death is a constant; true love is a certain betrayal; all this I know.

Yet I would rather suffer indignation, having sat idle until I died,
Had I looked in the mirror and known that I never even tried.
So I give you the works that come from a soul that never cried,
Never wept, never mourned, but often had the gall to have lied.
In the last of my days, I would that no loose end go untied.

I felt the need to write, and to find a proper closing,
Enclosing the composing of a heart that's supposing,
Many will find these words and send words of scorn.
Yet I see no reason, in the middle of my final season,
Why these words should be left in my heart to adorn.