Dispair is not darkness, nor lack of light,
but rather ashes - empty, dry, devoid of hope, like desert sand.
Brittle, like autumn leaves, my once shining dreams
now blow with the wind of time, crumbled by its creul hand.
They blow like ashes through my life,
a reminder of what could have been.
A lofty measure it seems I shall never reach,
they are ever before me, never unseen.
Once alive with hope, and the score of my heart's song,
they were the wind that carried me through each day.
Destined, it seems to become the mournfull tune
that I'll whistle, when I am old and gray.
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