When Will the End Come?

Looking, Living, Breathing, all are trivial.

What is the point of taking another breath when all are limited?

What is the point of living another day if all are numbered?

What is the goal of living a fruitful life when your fruits are squalered?

When such lively and fragrant fruits are wrought with torment?

When providing fruit for others joy only harms the bearer?

When the bearer provides but only whittles away himself?

When all hope is lost for the fruit bearer, but he must press on?

When he hides himself behind a mask and is too ashamed to dough it?

When every waking hour is spent in a discouraged and unhappy state?

When one must dance upon the flames of hatred and lie on the coals of despair?

When one waltzes to an unheard melody, only to fit in?

When society forces a young and nimble mind into the pubescent and unruly bonds of a tumultuous life?

When one grieves the loss of a love, a love of a friend, a companion?

When the greed of the world impeades on the simple imagination of a child?

Where will the line be drawn?

Where will the rest begin?

When will the laborious journey of life be drawn short?

How many numbers of days must go by until one collapses?

How many lies must one utter until until maternal instinct sees through the mask?

When will the sorrow dull?

When will it fade into the simple truth that one cannot press on alone?

When will an ill fated soul feel the joyous rebounds that love provides?

When will that escape become clear and distinguishable from anguish?

Or will it be torturous and vain, vile and tormented?

Will the seeming only escape be more tormented than the simple life the bearer led?

Will the progression be cruel and wrought with agony?

Will the possibility of leaving comfort become real and dangerous?

Or will comfort illude the bearer until death?

Until the final resting of all mortal pain?

Will that be my resting place?

Will that be the end?

I hope it comes quick.

And what will be the joy of coming home to a house full of hate and fear?

What will be the joy of bearing children when they treat as the very ground which the horses trot on?

What is the point of following dreams when the dreams of the bearer are not in reality?

When the dreams of the squandered tree are the dreams which it lifts its roots skyward and flies?

Those dreams don't come true, and it's the tree that has to know that.

The sooner the better, right?

I hope my end comes quick