This is a poem I had written exactly one year ago inside my school journal.
A quiet room,
To meet dark’s doom;
A treacherous sight to those who envy,
Lives at stake, and sadness, crisp.
A fleeting achievement mocks
From high above grinning skies,
And carefully watches
To laugh at fruitless efforts spawned.
And glories and riches shall kiss our cleansed feet
With no transparency,
Except for that exactly;
At least that’s what we were told.