Epitome of Ruin

 

Epitome of Ruin

Will they ever learn humility, to turn the distasteful volume down,

The awful sound that they espouse, the hatred that they found.

Will they learn to walk another away, from the loathsome lies,

The odious thoughts, the nasty talk, from the devils in disguise.

 

The wicked games, that are not theirs to play, the roads they trod,

The wicked sport, the sick desire to possess the eternal will of God.

Their choice of wrath, and death, being one with demons served,

Their narrow-minded sects, the strange rituals they have observed.

 

The blind fury that boils inside, the ignorant way that they behave,

As they scornfully toss and turn, from good to bad, in rant and rave.

They are the blasphemy of innocence, the destroyers of dreams,

Driven by homicidal insanity, to impose their despicable extremes.

 

And as they talk the script of hate, and walk the talk of death,

With words that burn the innocent, with the acid on their breath.

They have become the epitome, that burns their souls with angry talk,

Driven by the reckless bitter wind, that fuels thoughtless squawk.

 

They have set the world apart, to the crazy sound of venting forth,

Fueled by their mindless hate, that blows to and from the north.

They have abandoned mothers’ love, turned sacrifice into stone,

That marks the wars, that they have waged, turned life into bone.

 

Perhaps one day their awful sound of vengeance will finally fade,

Their false kingdoms turn to dust; in the sediment they have made.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (April2026)

The Longest Walk

 

The Longest Walk

Step by step, he suffered out the longest walk, the final slog,

The searing agony that marked that blood-soaked epilogue.

Step by step, that uphill trudge, beneath the weight of sacrifice,

The crushing path that led him on toward promised paradise.

The walk of a righteous life, for all who choose to take,

Where paths of life and death converge, and souls are made or break.

Each weary step, with blood and sweat, pressed deep into the ground,

A crucifixion carved in time, where grace and pain are bound.

 

Step by step, the burden of the cross bore down his frame,

Step by step, it dragged behind, a splintered mark of shame.

The haunting thought—how long could flesh endure such pain?

On ancient roads where countless souls had suffered just the same.

Innocent and guilty both, condemned by mortal hand,

Some for truth, and some for sin, none spared the harsh command.

Driven on by biting lash across a torn and bleeding back,

Each strike a cruel reminder of the strength his body lacked.

 

Then came the moment—bone and burden met the dust below,

A splintered crash of timber, and a muffled cry of woe.

He fell beneath its crushing weight, spent strength now overcome,

The earth itself seemed stirred to hush, the crowd at once struck numb.

A stumble first, then down he went, no strength to brace the blow,

His blood upon the hardened path began again to flow.

The wood that marked his sentence ground against his torn, raw skin,

Each breath a fight for life itself—yet still the will within.

 

Yet still he rose, though failing now, beneath the crushing load,

Until another bore the weight along that fateful road.

And still the crowd pressed in around, a tide of scorn and cries,

Unseeing of the sacrifice set before their very eyes.

And we who lined that narrow way beheld the sorrow there,

Some turned aside in silent grief; some watched with hollow stare.

Some jeered aloud, unmoved by pain, with hardened, cruel delight,

While others wept but dared not speak, nor stand for what was right.

 

Eyes met his own—what did we see within that fleeting gaze?

Condemnation, fear, or love… or truth that set ablaze?

For in those eyes no hatred burned, no anger, no disdain—

But something deeper, vast, and still, that outlived mortal pain.

Step by step, through dust and pain, through anguish deep and wild,

Step by step, endured for all—the broken, lost, reviled.

With all the weight of humankind upon his shoulders cast,

He walked a path of suffering, from first breath to the last.

 

And in that walk, a truth remains for all who choose to see,

That strength is forged in suffering, and grace in agony.

For every step through trials borne with courage, heart, and will,

Leads not to death alone—but to a higher calling still.

Are we the hush of doubt that denies—and walks no more,

Who felt the truth before us—yet chose to feel no more.

Or are we those who choose to walk the very road he trod,

To bear the weight with steadfast hearts, in faith, in truth, in God.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (March 2026)

The Paths that Meet Again

 

The Paths that Meet Again

As I walked along the paths he had laid, my footsteps where he trod,

I saw a child in tune, who learned and spoke the sacred word of God.

From Bethlehem to Egypt, through the Holy Land, each day within his stride,

To Jerusalem at last—Golgotha, the skull—where, persecuted, he was crucified.

 

From strength to strength, I watched, and read how wisdom came to grow,

I listened to the word; rewritten through the centuries that we know.

My mind stepped back and forth through time, my thoughts by years torn apart,

Yet felt a wonderous well of quiet strength, a love ascending within my heart.

 

I sensed the gentle hand of God, that flowed where many dare not go,

While others lived in fractured worlds, in madness I could never know.

Yet in that hush between the noise, a deeper truth began to grow,

A whispered path beneath the chaos, only willing hearts would know.

 

I passed through whispered temples, where incense curled in silent air,

In mosques bowed heads touched the earth in humble, fervent prayer.

Through synagogues of ancient song, where old covenant voices rise,

And eastern paths of stillness, where truth is sought with inward eyes.

 

I heard the mantras softly breathed beneath the turning of the wheel,

Saw silent monks in saffron robes, where suffering learns to kneel.

In desert sands to mountain shrines, through every tongue a sacred sound,

The search for truth remained the same—in different form and fabric found,

 

I saw a familiar light, through fractured glass, that burned just the same,

Where earnest pledges were declared, to the sacred echoes of a holy name.

Such reverence in meditation, and prayer, each faithful following devout,

Spiritually cleansing their mortal souls, as they drove the evil spirits out.

 

I passed by men in gathering, hands bound by their communal sin,

In hypocrisy they followed stone words, echoing on hollow walls within.

Tightly entwined, bound by ancient voices speaking prophecies of old,

Men tethered fast in heavy chains to pillars dressed in plundered gold.

 

Saints carved in wood and stone, eyes cast down in silent contemplation,

While men would sin, then kneel again, repenting for eternal salvation.

They venerated their crafted relics, etched with runes of ancient lore,

And hummed their solemn, sacred chants as done for years before.

 

Their followers’ eyes glazed over, held in some eternal blinding plight,

Their souls adrift between the shadows, wavering between dark and light.

I heard them preach of death to those of other faiths who also pray,

Their vision fixed on conquest, to erase all those who stood in their way.

 

I felt the venom in their hearts, the righteousness they claimed as right,

As persecution cloaked itself in the robes of virtue, veiled in its light.

On every side, discordant extremity grew—hatred feeding on its own,

Reason bent and twisted thin; compassion crushed beneath the stone.

 

They preached of vengeance, purging mercy from the chambers of the soul,

And walked down roads of darkness, broken and scarred with every toll.

Blind to the light within their reach, yet claiming righteous sight,

They traded grace for bitter crowns and called their blindness light.

 

Yet through it all I sensed ahead a marker set beyond the pain,

A moment carved in ancient thought where all the paths would meet again.

So, I looked beyond the wars of men, beyond the blood, the endless cries,

Toward a place where peace might dwell beneath more understanding skies.

 

From where the roads of man once split and wandered far, divided, torn,

To where they meet again in unity, and something new in us is born.

Where madness loosens from its grip upon the kingdoms of the earth,

And man's humanity rediscovers compassion’s quiet, sacred worth.

 

Not one return in flesh alone, nor crowned upon a throne above,

But in the steps of humankind—reborn through empathy and love.

In the second coming, not of one, but found in all humanity:

The sons and daughters risen together, in truth, in peace, in unity.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (April 2026)

A Seed from Afar

 

A Seed from Afar

Sing, O silent voice of reason, of the child beneath the night,

Lost below the countless stars and heaven’s endless height.

Alone his little mind wandered, where the silent heavens burned,

To contemplate the empty vast, in reflective thought it turned.

In wonder of what exists in infinity, far beyond the Milky Way,

Past the fringe of darkness, where the eternal light decays.

Beyond the universe, to the cosmos, too vast to comprehend,

Where answers may yet linger—to the beginning, and the end.

 

Going where space unfolds into infinite unknown matter,

Out where fine cosmic dust and celestial ash lie scattered.

Perhaps out there, the genesis of life—a power most divine,

The answer to all mystery, and the very thread of time.

Or maybe at the edge—a vast, and unbreachable domain,

An impervious cosmic boundary, a great enclosing plane.

Protecting all life’s existence in a state of unseen being,

By some gigantic celestial force—a watchful eye, all-seeing.

 

As he searched the endless haze, his eyes fixed on a darkened hole,

Perhaps a silent mirror of something lost within his soul.

Then from the depths of space, beyond the reach of time, it came—

The finest shaft of light, igniting conscious thought within his brain.

No force announced its coming, no voice from throne or sky,

It moved with gentle certainty, just as quiet as a sigh.

Borne of the night, within that silver beam, a sacred seed was sown,

And in that silent moment, he knew, he was no longer alone.

 

Like a tiny ember burning in tinder, stirred by tender breeze,

Cradled in creation’s grasp, held softly in its parentheses.

Some thought it but a shooting star, a fleeting streak of light,

A dying spark of matter that had pierced the veil of night.

Yet within his mind of innocence, it rooted, deep and true,

Taking fragile infant steps through all he journeyed through.

From trials and from errors made, its quiet wisdom grew,

A forming, living conscience evolved, in philosophical debut.

 

The seed of promise flourished where its silent roots had grown,

And wisdom rose and strengthened in a mind now fully sown.

Rising from each shadowed night, though the path was often long,

Still the seed pressed onward, gathering resolve, growing strong.

It learned to weather scorn and pain, through hardship it endured,

With every burden carried, a strong foundation was secured.

And in the depths of wondering, through uncertainty it shone,

That single spark multiplied—no longer lost, nor alone.

 

Planting seeds of kindness in the soil of others’ where it thrived,

Through shadow and through sunlight, ever onward it strived.

Each trial it encountered became etched, an eternal flight,

As it pierced the deepest darkness and absorbed the guiding light.

The night could not contain it, nor could fear its course confine,

Bearing all life’s weight, its quiet flames began to shine.

And when those tender seedlings bent beneath the strain of strife,

They gathered strength and marked their place upon the face of life.

 

The world was often cruel, and the weight of pain severe,

Yet still they stood unwavering, unbroken through their fear.

No chains nor bitter tempests could bend their steady minds,

For light had taken root within, its truth no darkness blinds.

Where once confusion lingered, now conscience took its place,

And patient hands of reason shaped a path of truth and grace.

To plant in others’ hearts the same enduring, gentle art—

To grow the seed of understanding in the garden of the heart.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (March 2026)

Impartiality — The Face of Quiet Complicity

 

Impartiality — The Face of Quiet Complicity

When I looked into your silent eyes, the devil there I saw,

As your demons cried in anguish at the haunting scenes of war.

Your soul devoid of judgement, as other lives dissolved,

Silent acts against humanity — not forgiven, nor absolved.

 

There upon the ground you stood, in the wasted blood of others,

Innocent people slaughtered — newborn infants and their mothers.

You watched with glazen eyes as the crimes were committed,

Thinking silence had purchased a conscience now acquitted.

 

So complicit — I sensed it — your failure your demise,

A shameful lack of empathy you could not well disguise.

Your body stood there anchored, while inward madness raged,

The sickness left to flourish — the wickedness they waged.

 

You saw them boast and celebrate their vile parade of death,

I thought I smelled the taint of complicity upon your breath.

And in that moment, I knew it — your wretched soul was lost,

You never grasped the weight, nor the reckoning of cost.

 

You betrayed all acts of decency, morality, and humanity,

Turned your back on justice, bowed down to paralytic insanity.

Who am I to judge you — to heap this shame upon you?

Yet I shine a light upon the lens you willingly looked through.

 

To lay blame at your feet for doing nothing — frozen mind,

To burst the hollow refuge where you have long enshrined.

A sanctuary where reason’s voice lay hidden, bound, and lost,

While you allowed such evil deeds — and never weighed the cost.

 

There in the ranks of power and politics — where you stood,

You kept the lid sealed tight — and chose to do no good.

I sense an endless burden of guilt will claim your soul,

As the world we thought we knew spirals out of control.

 Written by: Alan Clark (March 2026)

@POTUS @Trump Politicians America USA Epstein IRAN Isreal

Where the Light of Karma Falls

 

Where the Light of Karma Falls

Beautiful Karma, each day around the globe she goes,

Above indifferent skies, beyond the horizon where she rose.

Steadfastly watching over us, her pull attuned to tides,

Reflecting the sun’s radiant light wherever darkness hides.

Some have said that Karma is a bitch, etched in ancient runes,

Shining down her heavenly light, keeping the world in tune.

 

A mysterious angel watches over me — Karma is her name,

Others say, “A gift of God!” and I love her just the same.

She was set aloft, to right the wrongs, in her just crusade,

Against the evil of mankind and the crooked games they played.

Karma can turn the tide from wickedness once wrought,

Making evil pay the cost for the harm that it has brought.

I love the way she reins in sinners, gently settling the score,

And the beauty of the way she goes about her patient chore.

Sending down warning lessons that injustice never pays,

As she cleanses the world of sin and all its crooked ways.

The watchful eye of Karma sees the paths that mortals tread,

And where her heavenly light must fall, the truth is always read.

I bear no shame to have the breath of Karma on my lips,

To wear the blush of reparation in the colour of her eclipse.

My thanks go out to Karma, and all the good she brings,

And I truly love to hearken to the sacred songs she sings.

The sound of her work brings sweet music to my ears,

Eternal Karma, beacon of hope through the passing years.

None can hide from Karma’s eye, wherever they may roam,

For every truth is written within the light of Karma’s home.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (March 2026)

The Brother Who Carried All the Pain

 

The Brother Who Carried All the Pain

The second child arrived before her heart could mend,

Too soon the pain of birth returned she could not fend.

She had not wished another burden at her side,

Her patience worn, her tender feelings pushed aside.

Had fate instead delivered a daughter soft and mild,

Her heart might warm—but not for this unwanted child.

 

Her firstborn son remained the jewel within her sight,

The sun around which turned her small domestic light.

Her praise and fond affection shaped his growing days,

She crowned his smallest deeds with undeserving praise.

In whispered words she fed the pride within his ear,

And sowed the seeds of self that flourished year by year.

 

The younger brother, drifting somewhere out of view,

Received the colder glance as her indifference grew.

No gentle bond had formed between them from the start,

A quiet frost had settled deep within her heart.

And so, the elder learned, when mother was away,

His smaller brother made a harmless game to play.

 

He learned her moods, the weather of her troubled mind,

That tears and noise would make her sharp, impatient, blind.

So, when she turned away, beyond her watchful sight,

His little brother felt the brunt of childish spite.

A shove, a slap, a blow delivered quick and sly—

And if the baby cried, the elder would deny.

 

Too young to speak, the little one could only weep,

His mother’s iciness unfelt, but certain, firm, and deep.

Then one day, a four-by-two, with rusty nail sticking out,

Struck down upon his infant head, with a massive clout.

The blood ran red—no lie could hide the awful mark,

And truth stood naked in the sudden, dreadful stark.

 

The firstborn’s punishment that day, was sharp but brief,

Yet sharper still a sinister lesson whispered underneath:

That tears and tales could bend his mother to his will,

And she would strike the smaller brother standing still.

From then he learned the cruel advantage of the game—

To cry for help… and let his mother deal the blame.

 

Each day the malignant tumor in her mind increased

Spreading within her frontal lobe, in its solemn feast

In place of warmth, coldness setting in, taking control,

Consuming any decency, leaving behind a bitter soul.

The monster inside building pressure, setting the stage,

Inherent festering, boiling away, craving to vent rage.

Restlessly waiting for a trivial incident, an itchy finger,

A tiny yelp or howl, shriek, or scream, to pull the trigger.

And vent the steam that had gone well past boiling point,

The misery of daily tasks that set her mind out of joint.

So, when the cloud of madness set in, when she was riled,

She believed that it was not a crime, to spank her child.

Yes, to beat a part of her, to beat him hard with a stick!

To drag him by the hair, like a rag doll, her mind so sick

For love of hate, the sadistic mum, her pleasure in pain,

So condescending, full of disparagement and disdain.

The cut of criticism upon her breath when she was wild,

Out came her demons, spare the rod and spoil the child.

 

The awful wound upon his head became a painful score,

Infected bone that left him weak and grew into more.

Long weeks in wards where silent suffering filled the air,

While mother’s patience thinned, and little brother’s care.

The blow that split his scalp did more than flesh divide—

It clouded thought and left confusion deep inside.

 

And from that day a pounding ache would haunt his head,

A constant drum of pain, that followed where he went.

At times it swelled to storms of blinding, crushing might,

The cruel affliction men would later call migraine’s bite.

Yet, when he spoke, of pain, she brushed his words aside—

“It is only in your head!” was what his mother cried.

 

At school lessons learned came slow and hard to bear,

For words and numbers tangled in a stubborn snare.

His restless mind could scarcely hold the thoughts in line,

And pain would bloom within his bones with cruel design.

The fibers of agony through weary muscles wound—

A body made to constant ache, a spirit tightly bound.

 

And years went on, two younger brothers joined the fold,

Their eager minds still soft, impressionable, and controlled.

The firstborn taught them well the cunning tricks he knew,

How tears and tales could bend their mother’s judgment too.

And soon the smallest brothers found the pattern plain—

Three voices now would rise to cast on him the blame.

 

At school the whispers spread beyond the household door,

Where elder brother’s friends joined in the cruel uproar.

He showed them well the art of shifting fault away,

And pointing fingers where the weakest child would stay.

So down the years the second born bore the shame,

Caught in the spiral of a cruel and crooked game.

 

So, pity then the wounded child who bore the brunt of pain?

He never called for pity, for all he felt was storm and strain.

His mind and body struggled hard yet fought it all in vain,

The scars of youth ran deeper than the eye could see,

A life bent low beneath cruel circumstance to be.

His muscles bound so tightly, resting brought no ease,

And exercise only worsened the torment to seize.

Yet those who shaped the hurt walked on without a care—

For hearts that lack all empathy feel nothing there.

 

So, spare a thought for him whose childhood bore the cost,

Whose fragile hopes in bitter circumstance were lost.

The wounds he carried none could truly understand,

Save those who feel the sorrow written by this hand.

But they who dealt the blows walked on as though it is right—

For souls without compassion cannot see the light.

 

For truth may whisper softly through all the years gone by,

But deaf are those whose hearts never felt the reason why.

And so, the brothers hid behind their mother’s apron strings,

Spinning dreadful lies and plotting more of petty things.

Yet penance is patient, and age erodes the grime,

Time deals its hand slowly; rough justice waits in line.

The second born observed the world, its dangerous play,

Where shadows move like players, and cards can shift the day.

A life of careful watching, learning which moves to trust,

For in the game of fate, the careless can vanish into dust.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (March 2026)

The Road That Led Me Home

 

The Road That Led Me Home

I met an old man walking slow beside the road,

He smiled tried to sell me lies to lighten my load.

“Your brother passed the gates not long ago,”

He winked and said, “They let him swiftly go.”

Still wrapped in echoes none but I had known,

Still in my cloak of guilt, I walked alone.

 

A merchant stood beside the dusty way,

And weighed men’s souls as though they were his pay.

He whispered softly, “Gold will buy your peace,”

Yet truth and mercy he refused to release.

His laughter faded where the wind had blown,

Still in my cloak of guilt, I walked alone.

 

A painted lady leaned beside the track,

She smiled and said, “Why carry burdens back?”

Her voice was sweet, yet emptiness was there,

A hollow promise drifting through the air.

I left her where the broken roses lay,

Still in my cloak of guilt, I walked away.

 

A thin man watched the road with bitter eyes,

He cursed the joy of those who reached the skies.

A blind man mocked the cloak that I had worn,

“A garment stitched from guilt since you were born.”

They laughed and hissed, their voices sharp as stone,

Still in my cloak of guilt, I walked alone.

 

A silent crowd stood watching by the gate,

Their eyes were cold with indifference and hate.

When I arrived, the gates were barred and high,

I cried in vain; they hissed, “Go, begone, or die.”

I named each sin I carried deep inside,

Yet still the gates refused to open wide.

 

Then from above a shadow spoke to me,

A cloaked stranger appearing mysteriously.

He said, “Those men who stole your youth confessed,

Their wicked boasts revealed the bitter test.”

“They bragged of all the harm that they had done,

The broken child they mocked and overrun.”

He knew the truth I could not yet explain,

That guilt I bore had never been my stain.

 

I turned and left the gates along the road,

Past him who sells deceit and hollow load.

The mountain path was rough beneath my feet,

Yet every step made distant echoes weak.

 

Then Pride appeared where jagged stones were cast,

And mocked the timid child that had stood fast.

“I am your measure!” he declared in scorn,

But I had grown beyond the wounds of morn.

 

Envy rose next and whispered in my ear,

“I gave you hope, then stole it — insincere.”

Yet hope once lost can rise and shine anew,

Its light now guided every breath I drew.

 

Wrath hurled his stones with rage along the track,

He roared that all had failed to hold me back.

But pain had built a wall no rock could breach,

The fury flew, and yet it could not reach.

 

The night grew deep along the mountain way,

Old doubts returned with things they used to say.

The voice of guilt still whispered in my head,

The cruel old words the mocking children said.

 

Then far beyond the ridge a star appeared,

A gentle light that calmed the doubts I feared.

It shone with warmth I somehow seemed to know,

A distant memory from long ago.

And as I climbed beneath the quiet skies,

I saw the child reflected in its rise.

The wounded soul they tried to cast aside

Had kept a flame of truth alive inside.

 

The old man waited where the road grew thin,

The same sly smile still curling on his chin.

“You’ve travelled far,” he said, “but still beware,

The gates of peace may close when you are there.”

But now I saw the truth beyond his eyes,

He lived and breathed by trading only lies.

I took his words and cast them in the pit,

Where hollow fears and broken echoes sit.

His shape grew thin, like smoke before the wind,

For lies cannot endure where truth has settled in.

 

I reached the ridge where dawn began to rise,

And felt no cloak of guilt before the skies.

The star dissolved in morning’s golden air,

And love itself stood waiting for me there.

No shadow now could touch my soul within,

The child survived — the light that led me in.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (March 2026)