In the story of life, we weave,
What meaning does it truly conceive?
Not mere breaths, moments passing by,
But the essence of existence, oh so high.
Is life's purpose hidden in its final breath,
Or in the will to live, escaping death?
Immortality, a dream we chase in vain,
Yet, what value is in our hours without life's gain?
In a world that dreads the Reaper's cold embrace,
Why celebrate the end of others' race?
Would minds change if they understood the cost,
The emptiness that's found when we are truly lost?
Is it wrong to yearn for life, to dream and thrive,
Or is it wrong to seek an end to life's drive?
Death can be a blessing, or a curse so cold,
A fate we all must face as we grow old.
As I await tomorrow's dawn, I ponder still,
Why do I fear both the start and the final thrill?
Perhaps it's pain, the shadow that we fear,
That blinds us to life's beauty, so crystal clear.
Pain can make us loathe the moment of our birth,
Yet also shroud our eyes as we leave this earth.
But in this story, we must play our part,
From the birth of stars comes a brand-new start.
To not be bound by fear's embrace,
But seek the beauty in this endless race.
From pain's grip, let fear unbind,
For in birth and death, we escape from the blind.
YOU ARE READING
Flower
PoetryFlower is a collection of introspective poems, a journey through the delicate petals of emotions. Each verse unfurls the beauty and pain of existence, like a fragile bloom in solitude.
