#WritcoPoemPrompt8
Every soul that passes the gate,
Has passed a test of fate,
Trudging along on tired feet,
Almost there, refusing open defeat,
Once in, no man can't tell about hate,
The once loved is stained by own mate and recklessness times them out late.

No pain, no feeling never been felt,
At least at the clash of a shiny mallet,
the prisoned rage escapes like a fleet,
Free but lost,
Back, but their hearts at fault,
Tired and shriveled to the tiniest,
Life spared is hope though not finest.
Awaiting are the bold fresh saint.

That gate is colourless in description,
Dark and gloomy no verification,
It's never crowded of any nation,
Always open for all; a commotion,
No pleadings but random selection,
Looks out every breath la! no caution,
Lures numbers without an alteration,
The fine and the bad off no option,..

...But cease to grow,
Broken hearts in a row,
To pay regards and bow,
Faint and the strong no vow,
But to go..



© derrecyoy