Critiques and Revision

In the Middle

In the middle, people come…
and they stay for a while,
They catch up…
and they chuckle…
and they don’t dare not to smile.

In the corner, dressed in black, there’s a kid there alone,
He’s turned to the wall, keeping his business his own.

As I approached him, I noticed with a shock and a start,
The hilt of a blade, there was a knife in his heart

There he was bravely trying to clot the flow of his degenerating ideals
Convinced that the pain he felt is something that no one else feels

I put a hand on his shoulder and a hand on the blade
I pulled, and it gave; the wound began to fade

Drenched crimson, he turned and stared past me
There was hatred in his eyes for those who were always there, but could never see

He held both hands to his nose and cringed in repetition
It wasn’t until I saw this, that I noticed the putrid stench of stagnating tradition

At times, those in the middle, heard his cries and turned to the cross
But any sight of the actual problem, on their eyes was a loss

They were too busy deluding what they once revered as the truth
Curbing its acutely adverse flavor, to appeal to their youth

There was a time when their message was wholesome…now it’s stale
Any fool could feast on their “bread of life” as he marched, straight, to hell.

***
I talked at him, but despite my words, he had nothing to say
So I laid the knife at his feet, and remembered that day

Sometimes I visit the corner…
and I stay for a while…
we catch up, and we chuckle…
and we can’t help but smile.