One hundred years from now nobody will remember who screamed in pain first…or who was the last.

Strong emotions traveling on eagles wings
as tender feelings does on those of butterflies,
flesh tortured by grabbing deceits talons
or tears shed for a happy given piece of love.

Labyrinthine maze of spiritual twisted corridors
from where we hear asking for help a little child;
with a cutting edge of desperation wrapped voice
“Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Have a tomorrow will I?”

A rose is not a rose is a rose, no, it is no more
as promises of forever will become towering lies.
no flowers in the secret gardens full of thorns,
there are no doors in Hell, only the end of life.

Souls wandering like wilderness lost tumbleweeds,
don’t ask the deaf one an explanation for your whys,
as those that weren’t born were spared the agony
to live through all of it, hearing all the truthful lies.

The promiscuity of insults like acid rain falling
inconsequent on the dead rocks of a barren ground,
so few words ever heard to soothe hurting solitudes,
that the sadness child will still screaming as he dies.

Tormented guilt is cracking under marching feet
on the cobblestones of a long street called life,
one hundred years from now nobody will remember
who screamed in pain first…or who was the last.

Strong emotions traveling on eagles wings
as tender feelings does on those of butterflies,
existences mercies like an universal little spark
don’t ask me why we were born if we go to die.