Written in Grey

My flame
has always struggled to burn.
A bit of wind,
a hint of rain,
and the coals will move to smother
themselves.

My life
has never been
worth much to me.
Always struggling,
striving to find meaning,
purpose,
continuous goals.

But,
I trusted
that when I reached out my hand
I was reaching toward
a purpose.
A meaning.
A continuous goal.
A center of worth.

And it was thus the reason
that I reached out my hand.
But through the tears
I could not see that
you were gone,
and I had been tricked

by

the

echoes.