Hell

Just like age, hell is not in the numbers. It is how and what we do and how and what it makes us feel like. I believe it is the manifestation of our energy. An energy we spend and receive while doing something that may offend someone, hurt someone, degrade someone, make someone resent us, just to name a few. It is inside us, the currency needed to raise a fortress of our own demons. Of course, this doesn’t have to be just someONE, it can be anyTHING. It can be any element of nature or man made, and something that in the end, not only harms You or anyone around you, but, with it’s burning gaze scorches the life and humanity off our great civilizations and also the planet. Whatever we do creates a chain of events that will complete its circle, someday, and oh! aren’t we so powerless to change it? Though we are not capable of changing the strings on this instrument that plays the melodies of our life, we can however learn to play this instrument and play it well, a song befitting of our lives… A song devoid of any Hell.

As a resident on this planet, we owe some generous gestures to our mother Earth and all, Man, Ape, Trees, and towards every beautiful gift which are, directly on indirectly, our unspoken companion. 

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Hermit-crab-like-man

“In a town far away in the land of innocence

Not much to be, but a shadow of the notion

Crawling and crumbling blind men approach

To the alter of give and take, frail hands closed

There in the middle not very far from the last,

some humble men, living in the shadows of their past

 

When the time has come and the bell has rung

in one, two, and three, the vultures clung

The Meaty men sway from left to right

The weak gets slain by their hunger’s might

 

Upon this commotion, the fates warning blown

and the greedy men, all overthrown

Now come the chance for the humble man

to pledge a vow and ignite the torch

of a generation-long thirst from which he made,

and from which he arose

The nobles, the clerks, the warriors, and a hidden toll

a price due, all their secrets exposed

 

Upon many winters’ shrieking cries, and enduring a thousand willow mimes

The noise in his head if ripples, now a moonlit midnight tide

Though a crisis in his heart, and no one seems to understand,

His life is a war with aged eyes and wrinkled hands

Perhaps, he heeds to the call of the stray and the mongrel… ?

or perhaps to a trimmed, boots and a flock headed somewhere?

 

 

… a slow walk, a gentle pat, bestows his future on our fate”