Life is a poem in itself
Sometimes it rhymes and other times it makes no sense at all
It’s filled with lies, oxymorons and incomprehensible words.
With every fable captured, there is a part that hopes and a part that dies
There is a part filled with light and the other consumed by darkness
Shamelessly leading all astray.
With specific patterns and rhymes it flows
Telling every mystery of mankind and their ever-failing flaws
Unsympathetic it separates the wise and the unjust
It falls upon the publisher to dedicate its worth
Oh, how the pages lose colour and the words fade
For it is the readers who judge
Sentence by sentence, day by day, it holds no value
Only when all pages unfold as one, the poem becomes true
Scripted by the Creator it finishes its beginning.
If life was your poem, and your poem, life
What would it taste like?
How far will you reach and how close will you follow?
Will you fight or just let it be?
If your life-poem told the story of was, is and will be
What will is feel like?
Would your lines be broad or narrow?
Would you sing and dance to the beat?
. . .