The colour of a life
That was once pregnant
With budding promise
Nipped brutally,
Is midnight black.

The shape of that life
Meanwhile,
Moves from a point
To an oblong patch
That always follows
A step behind,
Unsure of its place.

The soul sits upon a ledge
Quietly observant,
Of the onrush of emotions
Entirely unpleasant,
Unable to decipher
Their true meaning.

Life itself
Is a motely being,
Holding together
This trinity
That boasts not
Of any glory,
Instead – ignominy.

Image generated by AI