Does it murmur like a summer breeze or scream in anguish and rage into the night skies?
What colour does hope become when reality makes it fade away?
Does once a rainbow brilliance dull in darkness a pallid shade of grey?
How does it feel when the ship of aspirations crashes on the rocks of life?Does it go gently into the sweet night or does it sting like the cut of a knife?
What odour remains on the corpse of a idea picked clean by the carrion crows?
Does it now burn acrid ferocity what was once as sweet as the red red rose?
What does pride taste like when it’s swallowed after the fall?
If this is what my life shall be I'd choose no senses at all.
