There are days where tomorrows seem bleak.
In the immediacy of now.
Problems teething at the pages’ seams.
By now, it is more than an obvious realisation,
that our future cannot be by warm cosy fireplaces
but bathed in the flames
of self-doubt, uncertainty and questioning.
Trust the love warriors,
coloured figures in the winter bleakness
rooted in the wind-swept monsoons that swell
enormously, in their dramatic fashion,
ominously bound to wreck the familial and the familiar
softness of what had been, always.
This is reality and fear,
in the making of a far flung adventure
into the celestial unknown of God’s doing.
What passion, or fervour we dream by.
The tranquil depths of paradise,
so remote and hard to reach,
in which we both want so bad.
This is no tale of famous philanderers,
whose names were never in the papers.
Only the tragic tale of ordinary men,
caught in the everyday drama and the theatrics
of life’s exploits and thunder.
This tragedy, can be no less tragic than those of Gods,
for on the virtue of Man’s dignity,
they deserve our fullest attention.
So that we may rest in the earth in a bed of flowers,
and not fall into our graves,
like some old dog forgotten on the street.
Why, you ask. This is our appeal.
Consider the wonder of our dreams,
for they are tied in a thread of common hope as yours;
Consider the beauty of our love,
for they are tied in a thread of common humanity as yours;
Consider the plight of our lives,
for they are tied in a thread of common struggle as yours,
as yours, we are.
Your fellow men, not so different.
All the same in our common dignity.
To face the same human fears with the immortal courage.
Unwavering in the midst of forceful social gales,
that wail wildly in the gusts of hurt.
And we can do nothing.
Only with that immortal amounts of courage,
grasped and gripped in our sweaty palms,
we stand strong and tall,
in our fight
to be the same men that you already were and ascertained yourselves to be.
