Illusion

A poem about what was written in the stars at birth. Old age had live untruthfully to its destiny.

Muscles who were not what they used to me,
sick legs had began walking,
where to the gods wondered,
a soul who didn’t follow its destiny in life,
brittle bones will have to do wonders now,
time is running out for our hero.

From love into hatred,
he fell and he stumbled, causing emotional bruises,
something difficult to heal,
for 80 years he held onto grudges, giving him so much pain.
his change became something utmost important.

Suffering was all around him, even within him,
something radioactive and transmissive,
other souls did not want to be in this line,
sickness and loneliness was his home.

A stubbornness that knew no boundaries,
there was rot in the garden of his home,
his emotions later set it on fire,
a mind that had a prison lock,
standing in the remaining doorway,
he cant put himself together enough to wave hello.