To poems must Life, At length, Ever turn. The joy one feels As one learns, The sorrow As one tries To forget-- To see Love Stand just beyond One's grasp, Shimmering, Radiant, Warm and free-- To feel loneliness Plod across All one's life-- So many poems We live, Of some few The author, Of still more Little else Than dolls Moved to and fro In mimicry. Once, I Liked to think True poems Were never sad, That we all Had music Intertwined With our souls. Now the bruises Heal neither Quickly or so well. I have awakened From the spell Cast by someone-- Or thing-- So long gone by, That I Do not know To whom to cry. Oh God! Did you Hear my prayers Ten years ago? Were they not enough To convince you Of my need? Or does Even God tire Of tirades after all? We each must fall In due time, It seems, from Our own Edens To some land More harsh And barren; Some land Where Love Can scarcely grow, Much less bloom, And where we May assume Nothing Save emptiness. I am tired... But once, The tiredness Seemed noble, Born of a struggle To live Life Perfectly, In hopes That Someday Love would Conquer all and Fatigue would be No more. Then, there Was something Worth struggling for... But Time Has brought me To my knees, And if God Hears my pleas, It pleases him not To acknowledge me. Each measured, Tiny tick of Time Is yet another Couplet in the rhyme, Whose reason lies Voiceless Within my stagnant soul.
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