STAMPEDE
STAMPEDE
Beneath the moon’s pale, a requited glow,
A hyperbolic crowd begins to grow.
The sphere is aired with fear and haste,
A storm of bodies, my qualms displaced.
A million cry, a sudden shove,
To venerate order, stripped of love.
Feet like thunder, hearts like drums,
Chaos shouts, and silence comes.
The pressing of souls, the crush of skin,
A pastiche, none had sought in a fin.
Breath is stolen, hope forgotten,
The rising tide with a brogue, spares no one.
Dreams are trampled, testimonial fade,
In lingerie where the lost are laid.
The refulgent souls biding, now let go,
Beyond the weight of sorrow’s plow.
The dirge lingers, sharp and cold,
A tragedy has drubbed vast to behold.
Each hero a story, left untold,
Each step a grief that won’t grow old.
Oh, let us pause and learn the cost,
The price of life for rice swiftly lost.
For in the rush, the fray, the fight,
We drown the snivel stars, we dim the night.
The paroxysm still slaps my imagination,
They left eagerly to be cut by illusion;
I’m still raddled in the hands of rain,
For the psephology sprayed like grains.
In my wander of syncretism, I sigh!
Man’s search for food via the mild,
Has garnished life out there a tame,
A radical shawl for a renewed shame!
Copyright ©
Tile Tersoo
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