"Where does one go when the grace of sleep arrives,
Floating amidst the fleeting moments of different lives?
A mere question that remains unanswered each dawn,
Where each dream and hope is lost, simply in a yawn.
Are our destiny's drawn, in prepared existence,
Or do we live pointlessly without consistence?
Passive resistance would be little to ask, but yet,
Where is the fight? Questions are just let."
The words sat angelically above the page,
Fountain pen raised angularly in silent rage.
Tearing emotion across the expensive white,
Dripping the effluence of creativity into the night.
"Hold me dearly," the pen screams aloud,
Squeezing tightly, the man in the shroud.
The lonely questions crossing his mind,
Life is left unanswered on his last line.
Perhaps it cannot be described in the bounds
Of the punctuation, the words it surrounds.
The torment of the writer is as it appears,
Looking to create answers, but merely affirming fears.
That which vocabulary cannot describe looms,
The pain of no explanation matches one thousand baron wombs,
One thousand tattered shells of men lie dying,
The victims of human intellectualism crying.
The writer is doomed to fail,
Never to describe life in their tale.
The mysteries are countless in number,
One must merely sit back in wonder.
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