Pulse Of Truth Poem by Henry Tong

When my arms are feeble,
I write the strongest words
each immerses in blood
welling out of my world.

Those words may speak
for themselves, even
when days are bleak
and justice becomes uneven.

My heart holds my pulse,
my weakened, but unstopping pulse,
until lies cease their rampage,
in which guilt is justified.

Words will have meant nothing-
as coarse and empty as a blow of wind.
But the world will have remembered
the hoarse roar that pronounces its fate.

Bystanders would moan - ethos lower
their heads to empathize the pathos
and logos - still - mean nothing.

Then, if 'nothing' itself
stores a 'meaning'
my last breath
lasts not
in vain.