Poetry

No Room for the Doomed

Where would the depressed lay still
For earth rejected them whole
The sun scorns
But the moon shields till the next dawn

Like a withered flower cast to rot
Like the gory sight of a bloody sore
Life left them lone but not without a gift
In each hands, a bouquet of miseries.

Now, oblivion calls out
It cries to the lonely and rejects
Whilst every sorrow is worn as a cape
burrow low and await the great escape

But not all waits
Some are weak and never would speak
In seconds, the thought is brought in
Would it be by the gun?

For the last moments of one’s existence
Hits harder than its entirety
A soul is lost to the clouds
Because earth has no room for the doomed.

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