For shattered dreams

Our muse is over and gone,
and the chosen one feels
as no inspiring hope
onto which cast our dreams;
and we are left to hurt and cry
pointlessly unravelling blue
as lines are filled with no bright
a path straightened to our dark doom.

Irony stands seemingly on our way
when we hope to fulfill our dreams,
as they head for turning points of life,
and allows us not to split our time,
our mind, our soul or our heart,
and shatters one merely for the sake
of feeding and nursing the next.

And this is how true love,
not seldom our ink’s stroke
fractures eager hands with swift blows
when once in the crossroad all’s been said and done.

Thus, Justice’s scale balances oneways
and we laugh and are merrily satisfied
but still up in our crimson plate,
one of us weeps for the brother sacrificed.