Tag Archives: loss

Chronicles of the Unhappy

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This is not a poem about sadness, but about the curse of chasing happiness.

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The unhappy are forever to remain alone,

for that is the decreed nature of their fate

Happiness is an elusive dream they pursue,

and when they fail, it is themselves that they hate

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Each time they are happy, it’s an illusion,

which fades as quickly as it had appeared

Each time they are happy, there’s a rush,

that changes into agony, soon to be feared

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Fear them not, theirs is not a black curse,

for they are unhappy but may dispense joy

With hearts so bitter and eyes so radiant,

they are like the legendary horse of Troy

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But beware, never show them any kindness,

for they assume hope where there is none

Beware, your affection is like acidic venom,

for they assume love where there is none

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For their eternally stupid pursuit of happiness,

the unhappy are pitiable and are to be mocked

And for their constant vigil for non-existent hope,

their doors remain silent and are never knocked

The Eternal Hitchhiker

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A cosmic fable of kindness, exhaustion, and the price of wandering.

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People call him the eternal hitchhiker;

he hitchhikes rides on the shooting stars

Hoping to reach some peaceful planet,

away from the chaos and the raging wars

But each time he hitches a ride,

he pays a certain heavy price

He pays it with a piece of his heart,

each time, sadly, an odd roll of the dice

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People call him the eternal hitchhiker;

he hitchhikes rides on the shooting stars

Hoping to find light, joy, and happiness,

within the darkness that kills and scars

But each time he hitches a ride,

he realizes what has always been clear

He can give happiness - anytime to anyone,

but to be unhappy forever is his only fear

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People call him the eternal hitchhiker;

he hitchhikes rides on the shooting stars

Hoping to finally rest and laugh aloud,

amongst the butterflies and a million flowers

But each time he hitches a ride,

his dreams are burnt and turn into cinders

It’s time to stop hitching rides forever;

it’s time to finally sleep in the eternal winters

The Last Song

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When the last song is sung, nothing is denied—not love, not guilt, not longing.

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Come let us sit by this brightly burning fire;

let us forget all and everything, the good and the dire

Let the high flames defrost our frozen souls,

all the cold voids within and all the black holes

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Come let us search for and grab our broken violins;

let us sing songs, and remember and repent our sins

Let the warmth of our company mend our broken hearts,

all the joys and regrets - together and in parts

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Come let us lament, the fading memory of old love;

let us caress our nostalgia - the delicate, grey dove

Let the stories we tell mark our long and sad past,

let them cherish our tears, which dried up so fast

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Come let us remember innocence, which was lost forever;

let us applaud corruption, the seduction was so very clever

Let us rethink all our deeds, so lofty and so dark,

let us not pass a harsh judgment, with a red mark

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Come let us sit by this brightly burning fire;

let us blow it anew, the flames loftier and higher

Let us say farewell to everything, ambition, and desire;

warmly welcoming the end, the savior, and the pyre

Messiahs of the Broken Birds

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“They called them messiahs of the broken birds—healers who could mend any wounded soul except their own.” A deeply touching poem about the unsung heroes who dedicate their lives to healing others—the counselors, caregivers, and compassionate souls who mend broken spirits only to face the inevitable loneliness when those they’ve helped move on.

Some said they came down from the grey hills,

with kind and smiling eyes and no other skills

Others called them children of the silent lake,

with a goodness so genuine and not at all fake

They nursed the ugly wounds and gaping holes,

their whispers, brought back to life, dead souls

Maybe there was old magic, lining their words,

they were truly the messiahs of the broken birds

They were no shamans, no charm but simple love,

broken themselves, more than a wounded dove

They shared with us only one common bond,

they cared for us with love and even beyond

No other mantra, hope was their one message,

optimism, the only ticket, to secure the passage

Life, as they saw, was unending ups and downs,

kindness, the only way to tread the grounds

They were prophets indeed, but prophets of loss,

their heart were all soft, covered in green moss

Their legacy was loneliness, night and day,

for in the end, their birds always flew away

The King Who Wears a Crown of Frost

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Introduction

A haunting contemplative poem exploring the universal human experience of loss and its profound impact on our existence. Through vivid imagery of a mythical King who rules over all lost things from his frost-crowned throne, this introspective piece examines how loss shapes identity and the hidden wisdom that emerges from pain. The poem delves into existential questions about where lost loves, dreams, and parts of ourselves go, creating a powerful metaphor of an island kingdom built from collective human grief. A thought-provoking exploration of sorrow’s transformative power and the bitter fruit of understanding that grows from life’s inevitable losses.

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So many things are lost, almost every day;

a child may lose a toy, or an adult, his heart

We may misplace ourselves if we go astray;

if our choices in love are not very smart

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We lose what we love, what we hold dear;

we lose what we hate, what we so despise

No criteria - we may lose a smile or a tear;

we may lose our madness or what makes us wise

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We lose so much; our lives are tainted by loss;

wretched beings with their backs all stooped

We lose so much, we are defined by our loss;

garlands of failure, our tragedies all looped

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Where do all these lost things go, once gone?

This is the very thought that makes me curious

Do they cease to exist beyond their last dawn?

Do they become shadows, silent yet furious?

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Perhaps there is a dark island, far, far away;

filled with deep sorrow, it is eternally cursed

A sea of knowledge, all silent and grey;

pulsing with regret, an unquenched thirst

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On that island, there is a colossal hall of grief;

therein weeps a King, wearing his crown of frost

His legacy is so vast, and yet he fears no thief;

his, is the treasure of all that has ever been lost

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He laments not the loss, yet his tears are true;

he mourns the tragedy of loss, dying in vain

Loss is a tree that bears fruit, if only we knew;

the fruit of wisdom, rotten and bitter with pain