While it's bizarre for modern writers to write about grimness, and macabre, this is my try, with an 19th centurish touch of American Literature. For those who won't understand bits and pieces, this is a outcry on times of today- unpredictable, merciless, ever-testing.And always I keep hoping that,
Why isn't life similar to a fiction-
Concocts, both illustrious and affray
While I've burned all my tomorrows,
And am burning my appertaining, today..
But anything is better than this agony,
This, derisive thrust by time onto life,
Of shadow and doubt, hideous, colossal,
Has given a damp memory busying itself
Among forbidden things, and endeavors,
Frequent and thoughtful, inside a struggle,
To gather from state of nothingness, my soul,
Which dreamed of success, of a high epoch,
And conjured up happy remembrances.
A heart which is the biggest fan of Hope,
Lies now in unnatural stillness, vague horror,
As if a ghostly train has run over it.
The limitless bonds, diminishing worlds,
All outrun in terror by the gigantic monster.
So ruthless and cruel has time been,
That when the Heavens up song and rain,
My eyes see Hell pouring down blood.
Still, always I keep hoping that,
Why isn't life similar to a fiction-
Concocts, both illustrious and affray
While I've burned all my tomorrows,
And am burning my appertaining, today..