Lost Decades

What is life, but a mirror to the soul, a  darkness beyond the grave.

A void through space and time; swallowing us into a pitiless blackpool, extinguishing us without a mere inkling to our thoughts and feelings.

"What is life", I say once more that compels chaos and distress.

Each day, every night the dream lures us on reaching deep to our souls and plucking at earnest our happiest thoughts.

Life is the essence of hell by which we live it to its fullest degree, carelessly devoting ourselves.

It is but our fault that the sacrifice of the human soul still lingers.

We are in doubt it seems; whether we live or die .
I sit here disillusioned without stance or demeanor.
Should one spark the fire of life we beg, for we will never have the courage to rise up and switch on the light.