Quinns Quinns Versify-It

Politics of Sacrifice

Gentlemen, I’ve lost my brother to a madness,
A madcap vernal fellow wangled to wildness,
By political rhetorics hinged on his undue ire,
A senseless call to action, to step into a fire.

To bleed stringing a schemer’s instrument,
To string us to a fate of grim bereavement,
To eerie memories of him writhing in pain,
Forgotten, crawling, dying, fighting in vain.

For agonists and erists who by night fete,
Heads and hands of the fallen at their feet,
Names and characters fading into oblivion,
Plotting a via media for their absolution.

And come tomorrow, today all forgotten,
We shall dance on the graves of the fallen,
To the hawkishness ‘n politics of sacrifice,
Until next when the bloodlust shall suffice.
©Quinns

A Beggar’s Moon

God has not waited for a sinner’s penance,

As I have waited for you to find a balance,

In your irresolute life but you would not,

Seeing you relish on leaving me distraught.

Neither has an invalid longed for the dawning,

As I have incessantly with this tedious longing,

Albeit in a stale declension to candidly tell thee,

Profane though it be that you should lay with me.

Neither has the grave for the latterly departed,

Waited as I have like a garden long deserted,

For a tepid drop of your half-hearted affection,

Like a pilgrim soul in a quest for subjection.

But seeing as there is no hope ‘n as I am weary,

I’m to free myself ‘n let days pass albeit heavily.

I must no more for you light my candles at noon,

I must not waste my wishes on a beggar’s moon.

©Quinns

A Hen-house

Say, gentlemen, does it make a hen-house,

For the mere fact that man has crept into it

On a rainy day to avoid getting wet, a palace?

Must he that has crept into the hen-house,

Then, call it a mansion out of gratitude to it?

No, sirs, for man had better live in a palace!

A hen-house is only as good as a mansion,

For he that only lives to keep out of the rain,

Not to whom this is not the only object in life.

Or should man feign comfort outside a mansion,

Because the hen-house kept him from the rain?

A man’s desires are the foundations of his life.

Man mustn't accept as the crown of his desires,

A recurring lesser object simply because it exists,

A recurring zero, however consistent, is still a zero.

But if it must be that man gives up his desires,

Let it not be for anything less because it exists,

He’s better off with his ideals than a rational zero.

©Quinns

In ancient Persian tradition,
Or so does a legend narrate.
That each time a rose was plucked,
A nightingale cried in objection,
To man’s tendency to desecrate,
Even what ought not be racked.

Man, for ages has destroyed
Beauty wherever he finds it.
For it is what he hates most in others.
That another should lack a void.
That he alone should be a misfit.
And so what he lacks, man smothers.

Why, gentle men and women,
Must man take such refinement,
And crush it down for his pleasure?
Why such obsessions and yen
To inflict pain on the innocent
To such inordinate a measure?

Pray tell, gentlefolk, if you may.
Why the nightingale doesn’t cry,
When a rose is cropped way too soon.
Why we often look the other way.
Why we prefer to turn a blind eye
To such cruelty and misfortune.

That till when such tragedies,
Come knocking at our doors,
We defend degenerates and perverts.
And excuse brutish brutalities,
That any sane person abhors
As though we have no hearts.
©Quinns