Wasteland

We mortal men all trod the soils of this wasteland
Our sights lit pale even standing still in the glare reflected by the sun
For what beauty to behold when inside we are all but impaled
No one to tell but ourselves we all struggle in the plot we allotted
For we are all rooted like an old castle fortress
In this deadening beauty we call the wasteland.
Should we continue our journey as if sweet smelling incense
Or smell the reality of miasma we inhale
This makes no logical pretext to the context we are living
This is simply a maddening breathed notion of well argued nonsense
For how can we be still if all we see is this endless sea of wasteland?
Gather more hope and it all slips away
Like how the storms engulf any trace of day
We wish for the sweet smelling dew
But have we eluded ourselves of clues
As we pace left and right waiting to abandon night
A vain repetition that runs around in circular flight
Have we accustomed our gaze to a fantasy that evades our visionless plight?
Living on choking substance of what we call a good life?
Have we awoken from our slumbered nights?
What form of truth do we believe in but well plotted lies
Our joy we structure on meaningless delight
Yet we stay contented with our smiles venturing cynical
Our desires have mixed up reality with thoughts leaning comical
Our virtues are lost when our affection are grazed to detached emotions
And yet we are happy and we sing merry in joyful delight
But in truth we are dead if we see with concealed eyes
That this very dirt where we stand to build our home
Are just rubble and stones
There are no pastures
But just our sweet smelling vision of beauty concealed wasteland.

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6 thoughts on “Wasteland

  1. j says:

    I wrote this after reading someone else’s poem, and was captivated by how he structured his words. “Wasteland” came to mind and I guess I just followed what I was feeling at the moment when I wrote this. I think when that happens, I’m still catching up with what my emotions were rambling about. But like other old poems i’ve written before, some I only get to understand after a long time. And who will ever forget “night.” 🙂

    1. Fountains says:

      Haha 🙂 Well, I think no other title would have been so appropriate as Wasteland. Writing poetry does sometimes feel like chasing after a feeling, doesn’t it.

      1. j says:

        Yeah, i guess so. I think of a structure, and a title to modulate what I’d want to convey, but feelings somehow control the flow, and you’d have to scrap the title. I read of novelists having characters that in the end run how the story goes. Still trying to learn how to write though, from seasoned poets. 😉

  2. scatteredpeicesofme says:

    “Have we accustomed our gaze to a fantasy that evades our visionless plight?” This line hit me. The conflict within the character written about and struggle with the idea that life is just something that we go through and compairing it to a wasteland is a well drawn out representation of a phsycological struggle to grasp the meaning of life and our purpose within life as a whole. That’s what I got out of it anyway. Bravo!

    1. j says:

      Scatteredpeiceofme,
      Yes, the character is one that is a down-trodden cynic, who is morbidly depressed. You interpreted that well. Like I said, sometimes I write stuff and am a few steps behind where my emotions lead me. In someways this is biographical. Thanks again for the comment!

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