The Stampede of Fate

Failure is painful.
Metastasising morale.
Canstarter of rote mediocrity.
A snowball of unsavory excuses.
Betraying dates and promises and trust.
Until even one upright moment
becomes a license to rot in passivity;
license to do wilful wrong, and slide the slope of hell.

Bright days fade into dark nights.
Chirping birds sleep into numb dreams.
Halfway through my narrow eyes
I watch the fleeting summer
displaced with cold fronts.
Palaces shrink into rubble.
Empires into shabby lanes.
Joyous times into stains of proof.
Now no place is home.
This earth is an alien land.
Smiles and tears all seem so unrelatable.
I am not one of this race.
Love is greek
and hate has battered me and left away.
The rustling leaves and innocent breeze
don’t move that passion in me anymore.
I thrive on misunderstandings, betrayals and neglect.
Those are assumed.
Kindness is foreign.
And friendship is an unborn tribe.

Without you I find no meaning in effort.
No meaning in waking up with fresh blood racing for a mission.
No meaning in brushing up my dusty soul
when the dust weighs too much.
If this is life, so let it.
I’m not bored, just brittle and dry.
A whiff can break me.
I flourished so long as I had the push.
But the canoe’s unbuoyed in the occult sea.
Dusk makes me blind.
My heart is heavy with the burden of regrets.
The Sun is dead.
But I am prepared to hang on
until the night is tired of being dark.