Rivers Converge

East Rivers flow,
Men beat the ground,
children die in rows,
women ate by hounds.

Stories, lurking in the midst,
hidden by what is missed.

Dark and dreary,
something inconceivable,
a wild flare of life,
the uncongenial human knife.

Spoken quite clearly,
a wife who is dearly,
tokenly, wonderfully,
broken.

Peace like the west river flows,
deep down the path,
these lifeless hidden rows,
end in tragedy and great woes.

People walk a second life,
line less of beauty and spice,
hidden in dejour of strife.

The choir of reminiscent sings,
the hidden dark angles white out,
and the black storm crows cry.

Wondering when, life did fly away,
little children often pray.
As if their God new a way.

Life is a slow passion,
wrapped away in an aluminum shell,
characteristic of hell.

Ode to Joys explode in madness,
as Beethoven is cast into sadness,
woes, spells, and dreary bells,
all reminiscent of the coming hell.

Slowly burning a course a life,
hidden lurking moments,
wake, every bit of strife.

Life is the epitome of creation,
for without it there is only sweet,
sad salutation...

Peace, like a river, Flows.
Hidden, it crows, it caws.

It causes me to cry.
It makes me want to die.
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*I apologise to anyone that dislikes, or is offended by this poem. It is extremely dark for me, forgive me if you hate it, and please rate it as you would.

*This is an extremely rare poem for me, but I felt, for some reason, I needed to submit it.