Writer plying his tirade gloomy,

Trapped deadly;

Betwixt Love, Religion, and War,

No Forecast bright or clean.

Where shines the bright light

Which once he started to gaze

Within the Soul;

One promising great insight.

Nowadays, he spots only

Burning flesh of the victims,

Of whichever of the Three

Had scorched the Soul.

He plans one day to write

Of Joy and Hope,

Be sinks in depression

At his current expectation.

Rumors of War vie

With cries of sexual molestation,

While Gods of his Forebears;

Shout words of hatred.

He searches for optimism

Surrounded by rage,

Cowards proclaiming;

The World will end.

Sorry be his destiny,

If the words must complete

On the theme of death;

Never to be read.

Copyright.Lawrance Goerge Lux.2002