Deserted Brown House

There was once, in this place, a different life;
The wind blows soft, the prairie fairly breathes,
And though I’m where I meant to be, I’m lost.

Though life surrounds, there’s little here that breathes
Of days once known, and ways we’ve long since lost;
But such, they tell me, is the way of life.

For all who struggle find that much is lost:
Our aspirations, and, at last, our life —
This is the fate of each that’s born and breathes.

Like love, that tune life breathes, that’s so soon lost.

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

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