Weltschmerz Poem by Atticus Mortimer

What goes up must come down,
That's the adage anyways,
The rolling tide of life,
Unmovable,
Unchangeable,
Uncaring,
And with that wave comes,
Despair,
Hope,
Ennui,
Satisfaction,
Such dissonant and contradictory words,
But it feels,
To me at least,
That the wave is plunging farther down,
The trough is deepening,
And the crest feels so distant,
Like a memory that was once clear,
But is clouded with nostalgia,
An opium addled haze,
The lenses tinted in that warm rose hue,
I look around and see the us,
The individual,
The community,
The nation,
The world,
We turmoil in injustice,
War,
Violence,
Denial of human rights,
Denial of the right to exist,
We stand and match,
Slamming our fists into the mountain,
Praying that with enough broken hands,
One day it will crumble,
Like so much rubble and debris,
I stand in the crowd of dissidents,
Screaming along with them,
No justice,
No peace,
No justice,
No peace,
No Justice,
No Peace,
My voice is a whisper now,
My throat is raw and cracked,
But still the mountain stands,
Still mountain prospers,
Still we send our young to the mountain,
So that it might have mercy on us,
And truly,
I'm tired,
Weary,
Numb to the world,
Like an animal backed in a corner,
Running on instinct and habit,
But for some strange reason,
I can feel the embers of hope,
Against all reason,
All logic,
All common sense screaming I'm a fool,
I want to be wrong about the world,
To believe we can crush the mountain,
And by so bringing justice,
To the mass grave of broken hands,
And by so bringing peace,
To those who might,
Not have to break their hands,
Stand up.
Fight.
Smash your hands against the cold,
Unfeeling stone,
We are the revolution,
We are the resistance,
We are the poor,
Huddles masses,
Yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of our own shore,
And we will steal the golden lamp,
Atop the crest,
We Will be Free.