A future that was ought to be, will not be.
Simple home, and a quiet life, we will not see;
for the stories I know and the stories I write,
this will not end the way I would like.
Bright nights and dark days, I spent,
looking for means without the end.
Pity too little such stories are told;
Between all and nothing, nothing you chose.
I never asked, you never helped,
to write the parts that you left unsaid.
Alone I tried, but now the ink has dried,
as I awaited the arrival, of a reason that never did.
A foolish endeavor I delved myself into,
filling pages about us without you.
Our best lines, we wrote together,
Is it too late to pickup a pen and write another ?
There always will be, an end to a start,
And each moment, is as good as any other part.
Hands ready to hold, and to pull apart,
The decision of which, has come at last.
With sleepless words, I carved my way to you,
And tried to break the wall, that kept me away from you.
Now I await the sound of a step from you,
For me to run rest of the way to you.