***
Sometimes,
We can do naught but cry.
For the lost lives,
Lingering in timeless purgatory,
For Fate does not know,
Where to place such souls-
Those who have entered his realm,
Far too soon,
Lamenting their unfulfilled potential.
So we can cry,
For the lost hope,
In a cruel world,
Where prophetic Fate,
Is no match for the adversity of Man,
Unforgiving,
In his selfish harvest of spirits.
How ironically,
Does Man cheat Death himself,
Of that honour.
And so we must cry,
To acknowledge the Aimless-
Adrift in their contemplation,
Of what their lives could have been.
***
YOU ARE READING
The Lines We Write ✔
Poetry❝Dreamer is too pretty of a word: A breath of wistful naivety, Masquerading as the oxygen of hope in our lungs. It reads as a fantastical tale of serendipity, In the novel, Life- Written in our name.❞ Highest ranking: #58 in poetry
