Measure of Man
Behold the sons of dust, both bold and blind,
Whose hands can heal or wreck, can bless or bind.
A heart may lean to right or veer to wrong—
Which path it treads is told before too long.
Some rise with honor, steady, firm, and true,
Their word like oak, their deeds a trusted view.
They give with grace, their mercy fierce but fair,
And plant their names in time like roots in air.
The weary rest where such as these have tread,
Their kindness stretching farther once they’re dead.
But lo, the wretched—low, corrupt, untrue—
A plague upon the land, a bitter brew.
No rattler’s fang nor rotted creek-bed mire
Could match the stain of souls that feed on fire.
For dust is neutral—plain, yet still it’s pure—
But they have spoiled what dust could well endure.
They leave behind no love, no trust, no friend,
Just whispers in the dark and bitter ends.
A throne or gallows, crown or rusted chain,
All carved by hand and earned in joy or shame.
What honor gilds the just? What scorn the knave?
One walks among the stars—the other, to the grave.
About this poem
Basically the old "Two Wolves" tale, but spun my way.
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Written on March 13, 2025
Submitted on March 13, 2025
- 1:03 min read
- 5 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | AABB CCDDEE CCFFGGXX XXHH |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 1,058 |
Words | 211 |
Stanzas | 4 |
Stanza Lengths | 4, 6, 8, 4 |
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"Measure of Man" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2025. Web. 20 Mar. 2025. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/216259/measure-of-man>.
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