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Discussion in 'Poetry' started by A Vestigial Mote, Nov 17, 2016.

  1. A Vestigial Mote

    A Vestigial Mote Well-Known Member

    Apr 23, 2015
    Its grip is strong, compelled and long,
    With a slight, strange "maybe" more.
    Its targets reaped are forever steeped
    In the realm of hope and lore.

    A stunning end, itself unending.
    A path that has no trail.
    Yet all of us prone to pretending
    We spin that path's true tale.

    Come end of run, our hopes undone,
    The truth that's to be found?
    That we were wrong all our day long.
    No more, nor less, profound.
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