The wise tell a story

Of how things change.

I call bullshit.

My luck’s the same,

And will be forever.

What’s a thousand ages

Stacked up against

These sad song pages?

They hold nothing, 

But somehow too heavy

To ever take wing.

Still they billow up

At the slightest breeze 

As I lose hope

Like a tree loses leaves.

And so I watch them

Blow away.

I know they knew better

Than to ever stay.

They touch the sky

As they ignite, 

To declare the burning 

Of my will to fight.

Falling to the ground as ash.

So reads my future,

So cries my past.


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Filed under poem, poetry

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