Albeit a rather short …
I’m not entirely happy with this, as writing poetry, for me, is akin to the labour of a mouse giving birth to a whale. Still, for better or worse, and I concede its bleakness, this is as good as I can do right now.
Think of it as a sequel to Intimations of mortality…
Brink of Mortality…
Never thought that it would end like this
To stand alone, against the dark
And feel, no more, a soft, sweet, kiss.
I would give it my best effort though
For love always deserves it
But try my hardest though I might
I’ll end my time alone.
It may not be allowed for me
To hold what love could give me
For some of us are cursed by fate
To make it on our own.