writing For the last time

[Pan the Fabulous Ferret 2,642]

My words are my weapon of choice.

As I lie here, pondering my meaning.

My significance in this world of affairs.

My weapon is ready but unheard.

And with it, I take my life.

 

My hands, groped by a sensation entirely new to me, as they fall lifeless.

MY body, limp as the wind that was meant to carry me.

My life drowning in the words that saved me.

By no extent of the imagination was I prepared for this.

 

For what seems to be the last time, I die.

Death being the curious thing in question; what is it?

As I said, numerous times, to die is to lose faith in oneself.

And I fear the time has come once more.

 

Any significant themes and moods that play, all are a waste.

Such is the way of seeking the truth in answers.

And by the meaning of others deft interpretations, I conclude.

My life has ended, all too often.

 

My weapon is ready, but unheard.

For once, I find no fault in such.

Sensations that plague the mind should be forgotten.

Any mind found thinking shall be abandoned.

 

So, for perhaps the very last time.

I see no reason in continuing grace of eloquency.

Nothing makes sense to faith that is cast aside.

For any reason worth considering, I have once again become lost.

 

No more reason sentire.

 

-David Favret

[I am TheBronyHeart 7]

It sounds like you feel the world is against you and your poems.

 

Sentire... isn;t that latin for "to feel" That makes the last line make sense.