It's daunting, how;
If I lived to be a thousand years of age
Everyone I ever loved, those who loved me
Everyone who sacrificed for me
Everyone I knew in this lifetime
Since the day I was born
Would've been
Nothing more than a blistering memory
A reality lost in the past
And it's daunting, how;
I could die tomorrow
These same people would never see me again
Not today, not ever
As I write on this virtual sheet called screen
It feels and seems as if life is sentimental,
and you can give it meaning,
or that reason lacks, then you can not.
As for this version of my conscience,
It would be my first life,
It would've been the story of my human origins
Of untethered, amalgamated affairs;
Prompted and engendered by,
The ubiquitous assimilation of Serendipity, Sorrow, and Bittersweet Moments;
Moments, that we cannot take back.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry
PoetryThe intimate description of emotions and thoughts that society describes as feelings that can't be expressed with words.
