Barren Waste Land
A complex poem on self worth
Crashing. Falling. Flowing.
Down like a tumble weed across a barren waste land.
That’s the resemblance,
A barren waste land.
Filled with trash, scraps and rats.
The wind blows through an abandoned, rusted silo.
Crows in the welted crops that have flattened over time,
the clear blue sky filled with vultures awaiting their next score.
The pure ground creatures peak around their covers,
avoiding their inevitable demise.
Living their whole life in fear and despair.
Am I no different than a prey awaiting death?
Or am I the predator?
Do I scurry at the glimpse of a shadow behind me?
Or do I stand my ground at the battlefield we call life…
No.
Io sono forte.
I am neither the predator, nor the prey,
not the hider, nor the seeker.
I am strong, fast, and witty.
I’m unpredictable, cool and wondrous.
I am the wind,
In a barren waste land.
