Can one compose their souls:
Through the tarnish,
The pallid faces painted in ashen grief?
Or would they await wearily,
And rest their hope
Upon what remains to betide?

And what awaits to betide,
Those with wanderlust and incomplete souls?
These souls, unspoken to fortitude
As well as the valises of one’s hope.
Or may they be considered fortunate
Than those who lie fleeced by the end?

For I am one of those, with time as my talisman
With ardent fires pertained merely by the heart;
Tell me, when one lies within the stars,
Would they had rather died of uncertainty or the forbidden echo?
Would they have rather lived when fate unraveled?
Or lived by premonitions exiling one’s heart?

© Netra.