(no subject)

[kittydesade]

Bleh. You get bad poetry!


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And in this world some things may come to be
And nothing here is certain till its passed
I see the patterns form and die; I see
what could be gained or lost. When nothing lasts
I play the threads into prolonging life
And pay the due when luck runs dry and bare
I draw each drop of pleasure, pay my price
in blood, when blood has long since ceased to care.
My heart has withered, shattered, dust and ash
A thousand times again of what I do
And yet the pulsing beat of every lash
and thread will keep my heartbeat rhythm true
long past the day when I should cease to try.
For life cannot be made to live a lie.