Hola Mentirosa (Justiceville)
The Wings of Woe Betide
We're waiting in the wings of woe-betide
within the corridors of destiny.
Condemned and hemmed in on this reckless ride,
with self-delusion, thinking we are free
to waver left and right as is our choice,
dictating how the plot will bob and weave.
Convinced that someone up there, hears our voice,
as finite nothing's so hard to believe.
But just suppose, the story of your life
was written down a thousand years ago,
with blood as ink and scripted by a knife.
In truth you really have nowhere to go.
Our paths may well be mapped out, till we die...
but that does not mean that we shouldn't try.
Comments about this poem (The Wings of Woe Betide by Hola Mentirosa )
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