in the province of Ghouls

Face the fear or forever

reside in the house of tears;

ever haunted by its shadow

eternally chased by its claw;

Drowned in the ocean of sorrow,

and always fearful of tomorrow;

All because of the refusal to grow;

Fear has a reason,

“No fear” is a notion of a fool;

Once in the square ring of battle

caught by the sting of punch, lies

a half-dead champ in the ring of pool;

Engraved was that phrase on his head,

a proof that without fear, the strong is weak;

That even in the league of the powerful,

 lack of concern and idle contentment

 are subtle forms of deceit;

Complacency,

 it is a dupe’s attribute;

Contentment in the world

of uncertainty is a fraud;

As pigs are slaughtered, skinned,

and butchered by their caring master;

After abundant feeding, caring, 
cuddling, and pampering;

For the sake of eating,
the body of a soul

was spoiled 
and killed.

And what awaits a man,

if he’ll refuse to heed the call?

The residence of the wimpling

is not in The Province of Ghouls;

Those with less mercy are endowed

with hate supplemented by cursing fingers;

Their joy lies in knowing that the Weak

hides in panic, or thoroughly buried

in remorse, in pain, in terror,

in absolute dread.

It’s unfair and unkind for anyone

to pre-judged that one is a coward;

for no one can deny that somehow

everyone is fighting against his own odd;

And it is only a matter of knowing

what is the real battle to tug;

As the mad chooses the considered

as the most cunning enemy to fight;

And against the most feared death;

On his quest to save lives,

he has to stop the endless

 cycle of birth and death;

Lest before he reach his grave,

his essence has long been buried,

for although he is breathing,

he is already dead.

Namaste21;3;14