No Chance

They carry fate in bags under their eyes

Pupils cloudy enough to blot out the starry skies.

Redemption never came

Unless the motive was for things as are to just remain.

 

Waving in the wind.

Falling, sitting in the sand.

 

Cometh a figure clad in grey

For this occasion white is too risque.

Another passing on the Styx

For all his customers are waiting on the edge for him.

They may finger threads of hope

Still the actuality unravels

Their cloaks

Drape to the earth like the fall of a judge’s gavel.