Difficult times; the clock keep ticking.
The winds of despair blows;
The nightingale is solemnly chirping.
Each day poses a steaming broth of oppression,
The soup is sour, but the hungered are a' plenty.
Difficulty smears their faces,
As wrinkles replace what once held gay smiles.
With each step, they stagger;
With each breath, they tire.
Difficult times; embittered in the ruins of despair,
The clock ticks on their threshold,
As they bend back in hardship trying to bear…
The aches, that stem from the scares of life;
The dying hope;
The strife, that seemingly never ends.
But underneath, they solemnly whisper a prayer;
Holding tight, to the straws that hope allows them grasp.
"Everything has an end", they reckon.
Difficult times…difficult times;
Good thing the clock keeps ticking.
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Comments about this poem (Difficult Times by Mifa words )
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