A Cold Wind

A brief journey into surrealism.

A Cold Wind

A cold wind was howling
and I was out late,
with fingers so frigid
and frozen in hate.

The miles were passing
and flying right by,
as everyone's crying
or living a lie.

Someone then hollered,
"They'll be here quite soon."
The young girls that lived there
were pretending to swoon.

There's those in the alleys
where poverty hides,
but nobody leaves there
til' someone decides.

There's always a young man
who stays back to fight,
and always one hero
to play the white knight.

When all of the shouting
and shooting is done,
all those left standing
will think they have won.

Then all the brave men
that laid down their lives,
will always be pictured
in the minds of their wives.

All of the hatred
that man seems to breed,
is passed on to sons;
and returned in their seed.

Where is it all going?
Are we losing our grip?
Is it worth all the anger?
Shall we abandon ship?

The very least we can do
in our boldest schemes,
is have faith in each other
and hold on to our dreams.