Sometimes, life just doesn't add up.
Cream in your coffee, doesn't fill the cup.
We dream and scheme all our lives.
Work mind and body to the core.
It seems that only heartache and sorrow survives,
if Mother luck keeps the score.
Still, we press onward to our last breath.
Convinced we were right as is our gift.
Convinced that we can turn the tide,
and close the opening rift.
Between our youthful, boisterous ways,
and the deadly routine that steals our days.
You'd think a life well lived would count for some.
But fate is cruel and can leave you with none.
For no matter how much you've accumulated in life,
you will die alone, too; casting off your strife.
More Poems
My Place
Read War's End, the Novel
Copyright 2005 © Ronald W. Hull