Saturday, April 18, 2009

No Place To Call Home

Dead long ago
In the graveyard they lay rest,
Amidst the silence of the cemetery.
Their mind finds peace.
A place so dear to them and to all
Yet so far in the mind of the living fools,
Six feet under physically entombed
At last, a place to call their own.

The living though near, still far
Minding the pleasure of the senses,
And the growing worldliness
Begin to gnaw the sleeping tombs.
The greed for money
Slowly flattening the cemetery
Disturbing the peace of nature’s memory
Throwing away the remnants of the dead.

Yes, money speaks with it powerful value
Disregarding the little respect even for the dead
Above them the earth is scratched many times
As apartments and condominium finds the way through.
The sleeping dead is fading with modernization
Where scarcity of land kills the ethic of man
Tombs debased in the name of development
The bones desecrated with outright greed.

The voices of the dead is dead forever
Giving rise to the erratic insatiability
Profit making- the rules beyond ethics
And the graveyard dilemma
Silently, silenced by the ravenous diggers.
A place to call home is no more for the dead
Though concrete building rises vertically

Oh man!
When will the morality of mankind be preserved?
If not now, it will never.

©cyclopseven. All rights reserved 180409.


  1. This poem evokes strong notions, Cyclop

    If a place is to be called a home, much goes into isn't easily can't just have a 'home' with money, or imagination.

    and above morality is the need to love and be loved,

    But love is not immoral, i is not about assertion also,

    we shouldn't be killing or torturing ourselves...and shouldn't be living as ghosts, your post somehow gives that feeling, Cyclop

    i do not know, if what I wrote made any sense...i get too confused with such thoughts,

    one needs to find peace and if possible extend peace to others, i think


  2. I wonder what gives rise to your words in this poem... you express strong emotions... bury me in a pine box under an oak and let me return to the earth till that day the trumpet sounds...