lost again insight unseen,
The stars tell me nothing but my date of birth,
and the direction slaves did walk.
Soiled old souls,
now bitter, with hate, forgotten of the parental struggle.
The trial of every generation
are the lessons learned from each one’s prior.
A balance of failures and victories,
and always, it is the people who die.
Ah yes, the old return,
the repeated theme and cliche,
it is her beauty,
and I am her folly,
her wanton regret and trial of choice.
Yet I do not concede my love,
I merely forfeit to change,
for I love her,
I will forfeit to change.