The Lost

Locked up in here, this jail called life, my sentence is to live on. The world has tried and judged my case and fate is now my warden. My failures stark are here revealed, my rich ambitions cast aside, my hopes and dreams are gone from me. My disposition now exposed has left me less than aught to be. A man without his pride is still himself and yet is not. For he becomes an empty shell made brittle by a lack of dignity. And if he dies his ashes blows away and settles not on famished earth, to lend assistence to new growth that nurtures life. But I have journeyed to that other side and found the pastures not as green besides, as those I've left behind. As bleak and dry as ever seen and lifeless too beside. I reached the end of my rainbow and found no pot of gold. My every cloud so dark and dense has not revealed to me the silver lining of my dreams. In fact of late, to me it seems as though they have become a darker mass that holds no hope. No hope to help redeem a life that's lived - but lived not as a life should be. Shall I take another look in hope to find that which I've lost? or that which I have never had? I bow my weary head, my soul is sad. My heart still beats, but only as a show that life exists within my empty shell. What night is night, what day is day, no longer can i tell. I cast my gaze to far horizon, and harness thoughts like to the oxen ploughing through the fields of grim despair. I want to break these barriers down, escape, just run away from here. But still I hesitate, for fear, not knowing what lies over there. For what is here is known but not that which is yet to come. And so it is I've learned to dwell in fear, confined to life, my cell.             Written By Gregory Fitt Written November 7th, 2001 © on Nov 07 2001 07:57 AM PST   0 • 1