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The Last Poet
"It's too late now"
🥀
The world has become the realm of hollow hearts and soulless dreams,
Where materialism reigns with deafening screams,
The last poet stands, a solitary figure of grace,
Amidst a world devoid of love, a desolate space.
Gone are the days of love and art's sweet song,
Replaced by greed and lies that linger far too long,
People, mere shadows of their former selves, Lost in a materialistic trance, their humanity delves.
In a world devoid of laughter and mirth,
The Last Poet treasures each moment's worth,
For in the darkest night, a single spark,
Reminds him
of beauty's mark...
For humanity was meant to love and to live, But in their greed,
they chose not to forgive,
The laughter of children, a distant memory, As adults chase wealth, blind to their plea.
They call him names, with venomous tongues,
Blinded by greed, their own souls they've stung,
But he remains steadfast, a beacon of hope, In a world where illusions tightly rope.
They walk in long trails of suffering and pain,
Yet blind to their plight, in material gain.
Hollow hearts beat in mechanical in-tact,
"Machines they are"
A symphony of emptiness,
a tragic act.
But they'll never see, the chains they wear,
Blinded by illusions, they live in despair.
In a world of darkness, they've chosen their fate,
A lifeless existence, in a hollow state.
The weight of humanity's greatness the last poet bears,
Passed down through ages, a legacy of cares, But it's too late now,
the damage is done, As he watches, the setting of the longing sun.
Resilience blooms in his weary soul,
As he paints with words, to make them whole,
Though the world may scorn,
and reject his art,
He keeps creating, with a steadfast heart.
They mock his dreams, the poetic art,
Tearing apart love, with a cruel heart.
In laughter and jeers, their hatred's unfurled,
For the Last Poet,
He's the outcast of the world.
He is the last...
indeed
The last lover of Life
The last admirer of Beauty.
"He tries"
In a world where saying truth is a revolutionary act,
He stands tall, facing the relentless attacks, For he knows that even
in the darkest hour,
Beauty and love possess an endless power.
"But they'll never change"
They grasp at illusions, possessions and lies,
Yet the emptiness within, never truly dies.
In their pursuit of wealth, they've lost their way,
Suffering silently, in the light of day.
A symphony of sorrow flows by, in his each silent tear,
Echoes of lost dreams, draw near and near.
The night embraces, his silent cries,
As stars bear witness, to love's demise.
In every word he speaks, in every verse he pens,
He echoes the cries of souls
lost in worldly dens,
He is the voice of reason in a
cacophony of lies,
A beacon of truth beneath corrupted skies.
"Until..."
A blade... gleams in the moon's soft glow,
As darkness whispers,
the last woe. The flow of blood, a crimson stream, Like ink on parchment, a parting dream.
"The ink bleeds, the verses cry"
The night, a canvas for his final verse,
As fate's cruel hand delivers
the poetic curse.
The colors of life, now muted and gray,
In a world where dreams have faded away.
The same old tune remains
nothing changes
No lessons learned, no one to... Blame?
Hope, once a beacon, now lost in the mist, As the world continues,
in a ceaseless twist.
No sunrise of promise, no dawn of change, Just a bleak horizon, forever out of range.
"End."
© #Sherlocked
🥀
The world has become the realm of hollow hearts and soulless dreams,
Where materialism reigns with deafening screams,
The last poet stands, a solitary figure of grace,
Amidst a world devoid of love, a desolate space.
Gone are the days of love and art's sweet song,
Replaced by greed and lies that linger far too long,
People, mere shadows of their former selves, Lost in a materialistic trance, their humanity delves.
In a world devoid of laughter and mirth,
The Last Poet treasures each moment's worth,
For in the darkest night, a single spark,
Reminds him
of beauty's mark...
For humanity was meant to love and to live, But in their greed,
they chose not to forgive,
The laughter of children, a distant memory, As adults chase wealth, blind to their plea.
They call him names, with venomous tongues,
Blinded by greed, their own souls they've stung,
But he remains steadfast, a beacon of hope, In a world where illusions tightly rope.
They walk in long trails of suffering and pain,
Yet blind to their plight, in material gain.
Hollow hearts beat in mechanical in-tact,
"Machines they are"
A symphony of emptiness,
a tragic act.
But they'll never see, the chains they wear,
Blinded by illusions, they live in despair.
In a world of darkness, they've chosen their fate,
A lifeless existence, in a hollow state.
The weight of humanity's greatness the last poet bears,
Passed down through ages, a legacy of cares, But it's too late now,
the damage is done, As he watches, the setting of the longing sun.
Resilience blooms in his weary soul,
As he paints with words, to make them whole,
Though the world may scorn,
and reject his art,
He keeps creating, with a steadfast heart.
They mock his dreams, the poetic art,
Tearing apart love, with a cruel heart.
In laughter and jeers, their hatred's unfurled,
For the Last Poet,
He's the outcast of the world.
He is the last...
indeed
The last lover of Life
The last admirer of Beauty.
"He tries"
In a world where saying truth is a revolutionary act,
He stands tall, facing the relentless attacks, For he knows that even
in the darkest hour,
Beauty and love possess an endless power.
"But they'll never change"
They grasp at illusions, possessions and lies,
Yet the emptiness within, never truly dies.
In their pursuit of wealth, they've lost their way,
Suffering silently, in the light of day.
A symphony of sorrow flows by, in his each silent tear,
Echoes of lost dreams, draw near and near.
The night embraces, his silent cries,
As stars bear witness, to love's demise.
In every word he speaks, in every verse he pens,
He echoes the cries of souls
lost in worldly dens,
He is the voice of reason in a
cacophony of lies,
A beacon of truth beneath corrupted skies.
"Until..."
A blade... gleams in the moon's soft glow,
As darkness whispers,
the last woe. The flow of blood, a crimson stream, Like ink on parchment, a parting dream.
"The ink bleeds, the verses cry"
The night, a canvas for his final verse,
As fate's cruel hand delivers
the poetic curse.
The colors of life, now muted and gray,
In a world where dreams have faded away.
The same old tune remains
nothing changes
No lessons learned, no one to... Blame?
Hope, once a beacon, now lost in the mist, As the world continues,
in a ceaseless twist.
No sunrise of promise, no dawn of change, Just a bleak horizon, forever out of range.
"End."
© #Sherlocked
