The soul that stood
At the precipice
Of the other world,
Before stepping into
The earthly realm,
Wondered what it held,
As possibility.

The soul has stayed
For far too long,
And the possibilities,
Never too many to begin with,
Have dwindled down to virtually none.

This tiptoeing through life,
Seeps into its depth,
Draining its very essence;
Just like the being it inhabits,
The soul feels crushed beyond repair,
Under the unbearable weight
Of lukewarm-turning-cold tea like despair.