The Fee

I don't know- might be hard to tell but I wrote this poem in one of my more melancholy days, so there really was emotion behind it. It was dark and stormy outside, while I was just reflecting on the journey known as life. Criticism is always welcome by the way. I don't take things to heart :). At least not my writing.

Scenes inside my vault of lies,
Without the buttons play,
A loop repeating- Distant pleading,
Forces me to stay.

Insane inside this room of mine,
These walls are talking back,
My only conversations hold me,
Beautiful and black.

Scenes remind that what I find,
When vain illusion's near,
Are nothing more than darkened doors,
Behind which there is fear.

Of darkness- I think nothing, something,
Forces me to stay,
The pleading though repeating,
It still keeps me locked away.

Followed into hollowed halls,
I'm forced to disappear,
The darkness that I couldn't see,
Becoming crystal clear.

I've given thought, to what I thought,
I'd never have to choose,
Even if I win within,
This life is what I lose.

No matter how I break the bow,
This ship will stay its course,
Decomposition of the soul,
Is sadder than divorce.

Earth to Earth, Not said at birth,
Though we know it is the truth,
What have we to fear when we're,
Immortal in our youth?

Middle Age- It sets the stage,
We slowly start to see,
How vainly so insanely we,
Have spent the maker's fee.

By 80- if we make it there,
We cherish every breath,
Finally do we start to see,
The price for life is death.

My curse is that the herse I ride,
In future days I see,
I needn't be of 80,
To appreciate the fee...

-Cole Randall
March 1st 2007