Laid back or laziness

                                          A laid-back life is like a breeze that moves the willow tree, It keeps you calm and gives you room to breathe and just be free. But laziness is like a fog that keeps you in your bed, It takes away the open road and leaves a cloud instead. The peaceful mind enjoys the sun and watches clouds roll past, It knows just when to take a break and when to move at last. The lazy heart forgets to plant the seeds that make us grow, And misses out on all the joy that busy people know. One is a choice to slow things down and let your spirit rest, To look around at what you have and feel that you are blest. The other is a heavy heavy weight that holds your feet in place, And keeps you from the happy path and finishes the race. So rest your bones beneath the shade when all your work is through, But do not let the sleepy dust take over all...
Post a Comment

The Sack of Rome

Beneath a bruised and sulfur-colored sky,

The bronze gates clang, a final, iron sigh.

The papal flag hangs limp, a pious plea,

Above the crowd's dark, tide-like misery.

Within the city, fountains weep and play,

As rumors like a fever spread all day.

The painted saints upon the ceilings gaze

At earthly fear, through gilded, hazy maze.

The pious chant, the merchant counts his sum,

And wonders if the judgment day has come.

Beyond the walls, the camps are stark and wide,

Where German flags and Spanish pikes divide.

The landsknechts, starved, with eyes of bitter steel,

For months of pay their starving bellies feel.

A reeking mist of vengeful hunger hangs,

A promise of the plunder's savage pangs.

A Protestant, whose rage has found a cause,

To break the gilded city’s ancient laws.

His captain, dead, and now no law remains,

To stem the tide of anger and of pains.

The Roman night descends, a velvet drape,

Across the city, fearing its own shape.

The ancient marble shines, a ghastly white,

Reflecting back the campfires in the night.

The Colosseum, hollow, dark, and vast,

Remembers other conquerors of the past.

The Tiber's flow, a silent, knowing stream,

Reflects a broken, fading papal dream.

The city waits, its history immense,

To meet its fate with baroque reverence


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Broken Arm But Not A Broken Dream-A Short Story

Jayden loved the sound of baseball: the rhythmic thwack of the bat, the satisfying pop of a ball hitting a leather mitt, and the triumphant cheer of the crowd. More than anything, he loved the feeling of a bat in his hands, the weight of it, the power he felt as he swung. But now, that feeling was gone, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache and the heavy presence of a cast. A freak accident during a practice slide into second base had left him with a fractured humerus, sidelining him for the entire summer season. The first week was the hardest. He sat on the sidelines, watching his teammates in a state of quiet despair. The summer sun, which used to feel like a warm hug, now seemed to mock him with its brightness, a constant reminder of everything he was missing. His friends tried to include him, passing him a ball to hold, or letting him sit in the dugout, but their kind gestures only highlighted the chasm between him and the game he loved. He felt like a ghost, a silent observer in his...
Read more

The Summer of ‘98-A Short Story

I remember the summer of ‘98 like it was yesterday. The sun was a relentless tyrant, and the air was thick with the smell of cut grass and dusty sneakers. The neighborhood kids, a motley crew of preteens with scraped knees and boundless energy, spent every waking hour playing street soccer in front of old Mr. Atley’s house. He hated us, and we loved the thrill of annoying him. He was the grumpy Goliath, and we were the plucky Davids, a soccer ball our only sling. The best player on the street was Kevin. He was a year older than the rest of us, with a mop of sandy hair and a cocky grin. He was faster, more agile, and had a way of dribbling the ball that made it seem like an extension of his own foot. He knew it, too, and his constant showboating drove me crazy. I was a decent player, but Kevin always found a way to make me look like a clumsy oaf, stealing the ball from me with a quick flick of his ankle or nutmegging me with a cheeky grin. One day, our game intensified. It was just Kevi...
Read more

Lost It All-A Short Story

He lost it all on gambling. The house, the savings, the car—all gone, swallowed by the insatiable maw of the poker table. For Andrew, it hadn’t started with a desperate need for money, but with a seductive promise of easy wins. He had been a successful architect, his hands accustomed to building solid, tangible things. But the digital cards on his screen felt so real, the rush of a winning hand so intoxicating, that it had slowly replaced the satisfaction of blueprints and new construction. At first, it was a secret, a thrill he indulged in after his wife, Sarah, had fallen asleep. He'd sneak downstairs, the blue light of his laptop a beacon in the dark living room, and lose himself in the high-stakes games. He'd win some nights, and the exhilarating surge of victory would convince him that he was a genius, that he had a system. He'd hide the money he won, a testament to his secret prowess. But the losses began to mount, and soon, the small wins were no longer enough to que...
Read more