Poetry

The Question

written by: playwriter008

Let me live, and never die

until my blood and skin run dry
melt me down or freeze me cold
but let me live and call me bold,
that I could stand such tests of life, and still be breathing through this strife

Not like him, so sadly told
by You in your golden age of old,
that children are meant to live,
longer than those who gave them life.

Then why did you take away his life?

and then blame God for your double edged knife,
son-less both husband and wife
aged couple full of sorrow and strife

while he sits there,
a shapless mound of hot ash white!

When Before he layed
not sat
a scabby mess
hidden from sun and starry night

I mean no harm but may cause fright,
with my bitter words,
so filled with spite

but was I the only one who starred not cried,

wondering why in the hell he died?