an attempt at poetry

chapter three: 'regret'

Most people have no empathy for each other. 

The feeling of empathy is a gift to my regard, an essence that allows you to comprehend, and thereby learn from other roaming souls. 

Those who lack the space of mind to host the new, remain stuck in the thread, caught for an eternity in their own made spider web.

All alone, they exhaustingly thrive through the madness, creating a path that lingers with chaos at every step and points at the grave.

With the hold of a gun a feeling of satisfaction settles from within as every other body bolts away before the trigger is pulled. Then. Then, it questions, as the last trace of humanity makes itself known, what the point of life itself is, if not sharing it with others.

 Did its callused hands point the arm the wrong way? Soon it realizes that the satisfaction has blended into nothingness, and stares unknowingly at the blooming pitch of black readying to attack. 

Giving into fate, its everything stops and for a second he has lived. The night comes and the moon cannot be seen.

A/N: Not really a poem, I know. Just wanted to share it on here :))