In shadows cast by twilight's fleeting glow,  
A young man sits, his heart in sorrow's grip.  
The world, a tapestry of muted hues,  
Lies heavy on his soul, a weight of dust.  
Why does the dawn, with all its golden fire,  
Bestow no warmth upon my weary frame?  

He gazes at the stars, those distant worlds,  
And questions whisper soft within his mind.  
What purpose binds my breath to this frail form?  
Does meaning linger in the winds that pass,  
Or is it but a phantom, ever fled?  
The oak that stands against the tempest's rage,  
Does it, too, wonder why it grows, or falls?  

His tears, like rivers, carve their silent paths,  
Each drop a query to the voiceless night.  
Is life a jest, a cruel and fleeting dream,  
Where joy is but a shadow of despair?  
Or does some hidden hand, unseen, unknown,  
Weave threads of fate to guide my faltering steps?  

The moon ascends, indifferent to his pain,  
Its silver light a mirror to his grief.  
He asks, what is this self that bears my name?  
A spark divine, or ash of cosmic chance?  
If I should fade, as morning dew from grass,  
Would echoes of my soul still linger here?  

Yet in his sorrow, something stirs within—  
A fragile hope, a ember yet to die.  
Perhaps the questions, not the answers sought,  
Are what define the heart that dares to feel.  
He rises, slow, beneath the starlit veil,  
And walks, though burdened, toward the unseen dawn.

In shadows cast by fleeting mortal days,  
A young man lingers, heart with terror bound.  
His eyes, wide pools of dread, survey the world,  
Where every breath seems borrowed, every step  
A march toward the void that waits for all.  
Death haunts his thoughts, a specter cold and vast,  
Its silent jaws unyielding, ever near.  
He trembles at the thought of life's last spark,  
Of fading into nothing, lost to time,  
His name, his dreams, dissolved in endless dark.  

"Why must we die?" he cries to starlit skies,  
His voice a fragile thread in night's embrace.  
The heavens offer naught but silent gleam,  
Their ancient fires indifferent to his plea.  
He wanders through the streets, past faces worn,  
Each one a mirror of his own frail fate.  
The old, the sick, the joyous—all must fall.  
No wealth, no wit, no fervor can forestall  
The hand that claims the breath of rich and poor.  
He rails against this truth, his soul in strife.  

Yet in his fear, a question stirs within:  
What makes a life? What kindles heart and mind?  
He ponders spring, where buds burst forth in green,  
Their fleeting bloom a blaze of vibrant hue.  
The rose that wilts gives way to newer growth,  
Its petals strewn to nourish earth’s next dawn.  
He sees the river carve its winding path,  
Its waters ever-changing, yet the same,  
Each wave supplanted, yet the stream endures.  
Is life not born of limits, shaped by ends?  

If death were banished, would the heart still beat  
With urgent fire, with longing’s fierce desire?  
Would love still burn, if time could never fade?  
Would courage rise, if loss could not be known?  
He sees it now: the cradle holds the grave.  
The pulse of life is tethered to its close.  
Without the shadow, light would lose its glow;  
Without the end, beginnings could not be.  
Eternity would choke the fleeting now,  
And rob the soul of meaning’s fragile spark.  

He stands beneath the stars, no longer cowed.  
Though fear still lingers, softer now, subdued,  
He finds a quiet peace in life’s brief span.  
To live is to embrace the end’s approach,  
To dance within the circle of the years,  
Each moment sweeter for its swift farewell.  
The young man breathes, his heart no longer chained,  
And steps into the world, alive, afraid,  
Yet whole—his fear a thread within the weave  
Of life, where death and being intertwine.

In shadowed vale where sorrow's roots entwine,  
A young man wanders, heart bereft of light.  
The world, once vivid, draped in hues of joy,  
Now cloaks itself in gray, unyielding mist.  
Her name, a whisper on his trembling lips,  
Escapes like breath to skies that will not hear.  
Each step he takes, the earth seems cold, withdrawn,  
As if it mourns the warmth she took away.  

Her laughter, once a melody that danced  
Through mornings bright with promise, now is still—  
A silence louder than the tempest's roar.  
He sees her in the willow’s drooping grace,  
In starlight’s gleam, in rivers’ ceaseless flow,  
Yet none return the gaze he longs to meet.  
His hands, once held by hers in tender clasp,  
Now clutch the air, embracing only loss.  

The days stretch long, their hours carved in pain,  
Each moment etched with memories that sting.  
He questions why the heavens chose to rend  
His soul from hers, to sever love’s sweet chord.  
No answer comes; the silence is his judge,  
Condemning him to wander, incomplete.  
His heart, a vessel cracked, spills endless grief,  
Its contents pooling in the dark of night.  

Despair, a shadow, clings to every thought,  
Its weight a chain that binds him to the ground.  
He dreams of her, yet wakes to barren truth—  
The bed is cold, her pillow holds no trace.  
The world moves on, its rhythm harsh, unyielding,  
While he, a ghost, drifts through its careless tide.  
What purpose lingers in a life half-gone?  
What dawn could break to heal a wound so deep?  

Yet still he breathes, though every breath is pain,  
A testament to love that will not fade.  
Her absence carves a hollow in his soul,  
But in that void, her memory resides.  
He carries her, a burden and a gift,  
Through endless days, through nights that never end.  
And though despair may claim his fleeting hours,  
Her name, her love, remains his guiding star.

In shadowed vale where sorrow's roots entwine,  
A young man wanders, heart bereft of light.  
The world, once vivid, draped in hues of joy,  
Now cloaks itself in gray, unyielding mist.  
Her name, a whisper on his trembling lips,  
Escapes like breath to skies that will not hear.  
Each step he takes, the earth seems cold, withdrawn,  
As if it mourns the warmth she took away.  

Her laughter, once a melody that danced  
Through mornings bright with promise, now is still—  
A silence louder than the tempest's roar.  
He sees her in the willow’s drooping grace,  
In starlight’s gleam, in rivers’ ceaseless flow,  
Yet none return the gaze he longs to meet.  
His hands, once held by hers in tender clasp,  
Now clutch the air, embracing only loss.  

The days stretch long, their hours carved in pain,  
Each moment etched with memories that sting.  
He questions why the heavens chose to rend  
His soul from hers, to sever love’s sweet chord.  
No answer comes; the silence is his judge,  
Condemning him to wander, incomplete.  
His heart, a vessel cracked, spills endless grief,  
Its contents pooling in the dark of night.  

Despair, a shadow, clings to every thought,  
Its weight a chain that binds him to the ground.  
He dreams of her, yet wakes to barren truth—  
The bed is cold, her pillow holds no trace.  
The world moves on, its rhythm harsh, unyielding,  
While he, a ghost, drifts through its careless tide.  
What purpose lingers in a life half-gone?  
What dawn could break to heal a wound so deep?  

Yet still he breathes, though every breath is pain,  
A testament to love that will not fade.  
Her absence carves a hollow in his soul,  
But in that void, her memory resides.  
He carries her, a burden and a gift,  
Through endless days, through nights that never end.  
And though despair may claim his fleeting hours,  
Her name, her love, remains his guiding star.