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A soul sits empty living in it’s tomb
So afraid of pain that all chances are lost
Alone, solitary fated to doom
A lifetime of nothingness is it’s cost







 

And every so often hope springs it’s head
A green shoot sprouts up hoping to grow strong
A moment deferred from the wish it was dead
Then withers in the doubt it could be wrong







And as every time such pain is endured
Of all hope this soul draws closer to cured

'Til nothing at all happens anymore
To avoid all pain, pain becomes it's core.







 







 

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greeneyedgirl
greeneyedgirl
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112 days ago    Reply
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Sounds like you have come accross my green sprout.....LOL thumbs up on your poem, hope to see you post many more, your very talented.
 


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