Babel

A poem that debates the question - what is man's purpose?

How can man reach his destiny?

The stars beckon, glistening as they survey the creatures below, toiling and sweating to reach their own standard.

Does life have no meaning? Is purpose just an excuse to keep on living?

Life is but a breath; a passing fad to a world which doesn’t give a damn. History is just a sharp intake – wisps that moved a curtain, or bristled a hair on God’s aging head. Marks on scorched tears of paper that are burnt by rebels and heathens alike, rejoicing in their wickedness. We place brick after brick into our tower, hoping that one day it will reach the sky…

What is humanity?

The search is over. Scientists have proven. Men in white coats droning as the hopes and dreams of mankind are washed away like residue down a yellowing sink.

There is nothing.

There has always been nothing.

Except when there was.

Hope. The way a fallen soldier drags himself along the ground, uniform stained and the cries of his comrades ringing in his broken ears, as shells shatter and scatter lives like crimson rose petals.

Wedding bells. The feeling swells.

Hope is everywhere, regardless of the facts and figures.

And I will keep my vice-like grip onto the sanity that threatens to depart – for I know in my heart that Man is not mindless. For in each twisted mind and each shattered dream lies hope – a hope that will not be shaken by the atrocities of this world. And the stubbornness that is inside each one us will remain, for I know there is one truth that sets us apart…

Man has a soul.

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed