The Storm

The storm so familiar, yet so atrocious
Brings with it mayhem and sorrow
The body, mind and soul-maimed and tainted
The storm swept away all good inclinations
One’s being and potentials left unheeded
Rendering it bare, broken, belied
Stripping its emblem, ethics and esteem
The shape-shifting storm as old as Man
That is neither yearned nor welcomed
Wielding its power of misery and apathy
Neither demarcating nor Ostracising:
The affluent, the destitute, the incapacitated
All within its reach and under its spell
The blithe, the mirth, the complacency
Garnered and guarded with ferocity
With egocentric and avaricious traits
All razed to ashes; All rendered to void

 

Or so it seems to the beholder
Portraying all the ugliness devoid of spark
Rendering light into darkness and mayhem
Yet from the great ashes and the vast void
A tiny remnant of what was once
The very thing on which humanity thrived
The thing that defied total annihilation
The thing that is immortal: Hope
It would grow and propel re-emergence
From the remains of the storm’s ruthlessness
Shall arose, as before; wisdom and love
Determination, prosperity and greatness
For, all one needed was to search
For the remnant of what once was Hope
For Hope was never meant to die
It’s creator being the Almighty God
In whom Hope dwells for all Eternity
-Chingngaihlian Tunglut


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