All Five Walled

On the day of doom, there were five minds of men, 
the first stood upright, with a burst of might, 
he spoke of a tale, in hindsight—
a sermon for life
wherein he stood longer than any commotion, victory, or celebration, 
and it was all earned through years of work, 
with sweat infusing with tears on the shirt 
everyday past eight when he drove back home 
with no lights in the way. 
The second rode the thrill of man
until he served as pawn
in years past his dawn, 
and adolescence:
he trampled every man in the way
until he grew well in age,
and was coerced into shape,
when he could not go on. 
The third was a captive, 
bruised and abused, 
shackled then fed, 
perpetually scared of what lied ahead, 
of where was the place of sale, 
and if there were any hurdles in the way;
if his own would die like his herd, 
if the water or food would go short—
then all fears come to life, 
like a cruel joke by the sixth man stationed in the sky;
and he trembles with unease and pain, 
and insults God with disdain. 
The fourth saw all that came before
and wanted to win the world, 
he saw struggles for what they were:
wishes that went unfulfilled 
as the years turned, 
and rains washed away the phantom dirt;
this was all to be done, and granted to those who could not,
due to his complexes built early in age, 
knowledge that was untimed, 
and the linear stubbornness of the mind. 

The fifth one lived in the shadow of them all,
near then away, in search of a reward,
which had to be won with effort perhaps, 
he started with unconventional arts, 
auditory spectrums that came alive, 
and penning of thoughts that reached the heart of some, 
or so it was, without effort that was complete, 
barren at times, and seldom seemingly odd, 
who was his audience when no one gathered,
who answered his call?

The conglomerate, the office, 
the house, our home,
on the day of doom, the sun was hot, 
clouds shy from the sky, 
a certain dread in the air, 
or a mere illusion of mind;
the sun caused sweat and burns, 
people commuted in a false urgency of work—
such was the state of the hive of birds:
stinging their peers, 
never challenging the leader of their herd.

And another wind, and another cloud, 
and another river, and another child, 
and another day, wishing it rained again, 
and another shackle in the name of god, 
and another day of monotony and dread,
and people flocking to religious temples and heads,
and another day of avoidance, and lack of shame, 
and another day of being on the run, 
for someone, weighed down by their conscience, 
and another moment better spent alone, 
and another moment of return, 
of bearing full weight of the stone, 
of everything burning under flames, 
and another moment of suffering docking at bay, 
and another moment of hearing the train, 
from three miles away, 
and another moment of hallucination, 
anger, rage, and shame.
And another day of rising only to faint,
by hunger and all pain caused,
by fostering a tree again.

“The tree was indeed oddly alive,
greener than the rest, 
curled into shape, by restriction and pain, 
I failed to see for much too long, 
but right in time, when the walls started to cave in,
no matter, no matter!
I failed to see for much too long…”