Happiness

At the end of the line, with bottle in hand,
the dreams of my youth are like windswept sand.
I could never imagine the thrill of conclusion,
for the notion of hope is all but illusion.

Is there a reason for permanent fear?
Would anyone notice if I weren’t here?
As the future insists on persisting to bleaken,
who will stand up and light me a beacon?

“Listen to me” is the cry of the lonely
who cling to a hope of the one and only,
but anyone out there won’t listen at all,
no one has faith and will answer the call.

No one believes we are destined for joy,
denial is the method I need to employ,
fate will show me how to play my part;
’cause I’m just a fool with a broken heart.

(25.5.7)

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