Fading

 Was it written,  

Was it planned?  

A fleeting blip,  

Or the steady hand of fate  

Is this what it means to be?  


When can the quiet be trusted?  

When all feels staged,  

A symphony of shadows 

Every triumph leads to ruin,  

Each step forward a siren’s call,  

And the path bends backward,  

As if bound to unseen design.  




Why does life weave this web,  

Sticky, relentless, unkind?  

The fears, the doubts,  

Anxieties swell like storms  

In a darkened sky, unyielding.  


Is this the weight of choices made?  

Does purpose linger beneath the wreckage?  

And if so, what purpose,  

What meaning does it serve,  

To fade so gently, so completely  

Into oblivion?  

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