The Periphery of Suffering

An old, ragged, unrelenting man rests upon a mountain’s edge,
There he sits and bows his head, contemplating all of nature,
His gray eyes stare to the horizon, gazing over the rocky ledge,
When upon the dry, dusty ground, he catches sight of an aperture,
Before long, the narrow opening would fill with dirt, he did allege,
Thus, of the meager chasm’s fate, he could do nothing but censure.

In his passing years, he had witnessed the churning cycle of the living,
Always daunted with the desolation of distress, dispair, and demise,
The man had heard tales from sages of great gods who were forgiving,
But in the humanly world, it appeared the teaching tongues were lies,
Time and time again, the elderly man questioned what was achieving,
Where in a clumsy causerie, the dispersion of ideology, is but a guise.

The broken man appraoched the edge unsteadily and glanced far below,
Unworried of tumbling to an endearing death, forever free of future sins,
His thoughts entertained eternal causality to befall him, never to forego,
His life seemed unnecessary, all dreams dreamt were but sickly omens,
Because his mind echoed the wants of others who needed a new life to sow,
In not living for himself or his own musings, he would never see the heavens.

Questions reverberated in his aged mind as he accepted an awaited suicide,
Surely the named gods could not forgive a man who would not accept his life,
No discernment of the afterlife was thought, after with the ground he did collide,
It is with the demons and devils, he laid broken, hearing only their evil fife,
While above the aspiring angels woefully watched helplessly and cried,
Praying that when men reach the periphery of suffering make the choice of life.


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