The dying

Hadn’t been all velvet
No bed of roses
The landscape lay strewn
By the carcasses of intentions, good and evil

But as he walked every morning
There was thunder in his stride
And a storm in his soul
He knew he was blessed

He knew he would be great
And a good man too
Love would be his
He knew he was blessed

And then one day
The dream died
He cried
Stomped out under the ugly sole of truth

It was not to be
His life would be marked by mediocrity
And the domestic squalor that merits no poetry
Hope fled, life bled.