HG ( / Sheffield, England)

The Fate Of Man

A child is born into this world,
it's body bloodied, features knurled.
Unclothed, yet warm, he's wrapped in love,
from parents praying to God above.
To mould his life and make it good,
they hope he'll turn out as he should.
To triumph trials he'll face through life,
to grow and prosper, find a wife.
Settle down and raise a brood,
pass on his wisdom, lift their mood.
His heart is new, an open future,
no darkened thoughts of race or culture.
Nor nagging doubts of self esteem,
his life to mould round which he sees.

Childhood springs ahead full speed,
learn first to speak, then count and read.
Through teacher's words he finds his way,
developing, growing, everyday.
With friends and family all around,
he moves onto youth in leaps and bounds.

A darker force one day does call,
does he resist? or does he fall?
He stumbles under evil's power,
blinded by easy gifts it showers.
Seduced to darkness, midnight pranks,
breaking laws, his morals sank.
His parents, powerless over friends,
with whom more of his time he spends.
A grandious plan, all fraught with danger,
a notorious gang, led by a stranger.
Have lured him now to drink and drugs,
society spurned them, labelled thugs.

During nightime's ghostly span,
now not a boy, not yet a man.
He journeys out with nine or ten,
who just like him, believe they're men.
They steel two cars, all fuelled with hate,
then at high speed they ram the gate.
A Guard, a Father, raises up,
four bullets they send to his gut.
As he lies bleeding on the floor,
from the shadows step two more.
Armed with anger and with guns,
they open fire, thugs are stunned.
One car turns over on it's side,
all inside have lost their lives.
A frantic struggle to stop and run,
makes the boy stumble, dropp his gun.
His eyes wide open, full of fear,
bravado now replaced by tears.
Now running, running, can't look back,
he's hearing screams, and then a crack.
A bullet hits him, takes him down,
he's thrown face first onto the ground.

Writhing, bleeding, dying fast,
his life near gone, no future, just past.
As concious thoughts cloud up with black,
how he wishes he were back.
A child again with Mom and Dad,
when times were good, and fun they had.

Beside his grave they stand and weep,
and prey to God, his soul to keep.
A life cut short, on vicious streets,
the fate of man, that he did meet.

Heath Gunn

User Rating: 5,0 / 5 ( 3 votes ) 13

Comments (13)

OMG! ! ! i dont know what to say? ? this is such a great poem, you have really captured the story of a life gone wrong. and its spo well written, i love your style too, its like mine, this is how i think poetry should be written, easy to understand and to picture the words. a definate 10 =)
i think that ur poem is ace ive never heard a poem like it keep writing if you get the time could you read some of my poems and tell me what you think
i really like this one...every baby is born innocent and has infinite potential
Very nicely written, though it does go against one of my long-held beliefs; that people today are reflections of a combination those around them and the mental faculties which are predetermined to them. Thus, the 'I' we speak of (i.e. our soul) is enslaved to the gears of our common culture and our own predetermined eccentricities, never to really break free in this life. Perhaps the next, and it is for this reason I pray there is one. With my own opinions aside, this poem had quite a bit of depth to it, and this tragedy of constantly unacheived (or perhaps unrealized) dreams of today's people is certainly worth noting in these troubled times. On a lighter note, I literally ten seconds ago was handed my ACT score of 30 by my parents. Maybe good enough for Univ. of Michigan?
You realized the destiny well!
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