The seat of tragedy

I believe,
That tragedy comes,
Not from the things we cannot have,
But rather from those things,
We must accept that we will never be.
True, some dreams come,
From fantasy and or entitlement,
Born of some need to dominate,
Or to seek control within,
Our echoing, empty life.
True, sometimes,
We will never be,
The captain of industry,
The stud, the vixen, wild adored,
Or brilliant artist, much loved poet.
But in the end,
These things are not,
The things that truly,
Make us tragic,
It is the unsung spirit song that kills.
The lover that will not embrace,
Or Feel a hand within his hand,
The broken mind that yearns for peace,
The father to impossible child,
A son who seeks redemption from his past.
These are the things,
That give the world it’s truest tears,
The cannot and the will not be’s,
That gnaw inside when darkness falls,
The tragedies of might have beens.
These are the things,
That cause brave men,
To loose their way.



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