Trouble Poem by dale rixham

Trouble


The premise of the question asked, was lost in the translation
It leads to disillusionment and the feeling of frustration
If the answer given isn't quite the one which you expected
The truth is this, that you're afraid and you do not feel protected

So the lessons learned or in your case not, and the solitude that follows
Makes the fighting hard, and the sad part is that the victory is hollow
When the dust comes down, in a spiral cloud, with the smell of blood descending
All for what we ask, is it worth the pain, when we see no way of ending

And to make it worse as we tend our wounds, looking for that new beginning
It was not about the taking part, this was purely about winning
Therefore tell me this as you ramble on, was there ever any future
As the past is slowly ripped apart and is held by one small suture

If the consequences of our acts, are the slowly burning embers
We may well be making history, but we will never be remembered
The graphic detail of this quest, must surely merit some appraisal
But be careful of the Promised Land, as the entrance can be fatal

In the depths of cold sobriety, when the drink is no solution
Would you sell your soul for sanctity, would you call it prostitution
When the dust dies down, when we see the light, through the narrowest of portals
Only then we find we are meant to bleed, only then it's clear we're mortal

All the evidence that is brought to light, has turned out to be defensive
When the answer given isn't right, and may well be deemed offensive
The trouble is when the time is right, it may well be too late coming
And it's hard to hit the target now, as it's in the distance running