Letter To Self

Dear My Darling Self,

I write to you,
In fear my efforts,
Were of vain and ignorant hope.
A naïve circumstance,
Inevitable if indeed that.
For it was told and foretold,
A tale of old,
Concluding it’s just begun.
A tale,
Of a you and i…
A never meant to be,
Consequentially meant for each.
A mockery of lovers,
So to speak…
For I am nothing more,
And nothing less,
Then mortal to fickle hope.
Lazarus need not rise.
Rather I, choose a dying die,
Over death of a laid to rest.
Elements denied…
By those whom presume,
A righteous demise.
A deserving worth…
Embroidered with ink,
And earthly wounds.
Scorned and destined to walk.
A wandering lost.
Though pure of heart,
Choice…
Be it not,
But Man’s debatable facts.
Intended was our birth…
Nature’s choice,
as it was, in his eyes…
My body is, but a vessel.
A soul neither ferry nor keep.
Human is my sin.
So judge me upon,
the basis of all that I am.