A Poem

Maybe the words I write shall keep intact Or be discarded like the dream I lost Like moths to flames of the cold wind, abstract Throw my undying love away, thou dost And now, a fool perambulates alone Lets out a cry of hope’s bitter defeat For the painful distress, he must atone And pay the price with blood, oh so discrete Should he accept this state of misery, Or wait once more for better days? Should he finally succumb to apery, Or is it simply a malefic phase? The path of death is the one to be culled And after dose of silence, he is lulled