We stumble in the dark and call it life.

Dreams take flight, and dreams crash,

while time moves on to the next generation.

What is this, our pale attempts to get it right?

We cross each other with daggers hidden in our words,

Slights and wounds,

missing love, waving as it passes by.

How can a life be lived

 with so much falling short?

We limp in our spirits as our bodies degrade,

then like a sigh,

a whimper, it all comes to an end.

Left behind a treasure chest collecting dust;

a pile of unsent letters,

stories with missing pages,

words no one remembers,

songs no one has sung in ages,

a life echoing into oblivion.

Our closing breath,

captured in ashes,

waiting to disperse in the wind.