The Ingrates

sometimes
we are given so much life

all the beautiful flowers
blooming wildly along our usual paths
to the mountains and seas

we are given so much of air
this invisible abundance

we breathe and take every packet
of freshness in our lungs

and we, out of this familiarity,
and routine,

take all these for granted
even as rights
rather than privileges

even if you we do not ask
all these are given

handed like fruits ripe on a
golden platter

and we have all become
ingrates

and so the Giver has become so sad
regretting that He has created us

finally contemplating upon
a destruction

like the way a disappointed writer
deletes his composition

more of myself too
erasing what i have so carefully thought of
and written on the sand

there was once a time
i did not leave it for the waves

i did it myself
stamping all those castles, destroying each letter

leaving everything in a mess
that it really deserves

after all, i am but a man
angry about ungratefulness....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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