The flame no longer burns.
The fire no longer kindled.
We are all perpetually burned out from the
endless trying and crying, when we would eventually be dying.
The spark ain't there anymore.
We are the grays between checkered black and whites—
there, but not entirely noticed.
A bulb has stopped working and nothing would urge it to start again.
It once served a purpose but now, it sat on the corner where it once glowed brightly.
Unshattered, unscarred, unbroken, but dead.
YOU ARE READING
Fragments - daily dose of poetry and prose
PoetryYour daily dose of poetry and prose! (and maybe a glimpse to what's happening in my life.) It's basically a collection of my writings. May they give you a sense of comfort that you are not alone in the battle you are constantly fighting. Here's to...
