Looking to the past, feel my heart descend
Downward through the spirals of cold despair;
I forget...myself! To what journey's end
Consolations that would be waiting there?
This world we suffer shares little with those
Who have so little to offer instead;
As deprivation with one's fate impose
Such bootless dreams or paths we sometimes tread.
Yet, the sweetest dreams often themselves reveal
Their merits, only when they be forsaken-
From futility, must we then conceal
The spurious course of paths we've taken...
Would insidious ploys now recommend:
Grief win over all, consolations end!
-the end-
Reason for writing:
Sometimes, it seems as tho' ya can't win for losing...
er...something like that...
Birth sign: Not entered
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Byron Keith Mills.