Life stares back at me.

Blank expression, no notion of hope.

Just hapless and vague, no strike of genuinity.

Eyes white like the snow that entraps you in your homes,

Bags purple like blueberries that deceive with outer colour and name.

A mimic is called a mime.

Life now is just mere ticking of time;

This to me may just be a rhyme, but to you, this could be the lime.

Limes are as essential as lemon, you know, just more overlooked.

Their colour is significantly duller, their taste a tad bit better.

Their essence still the same.

I bet life stares at them too, same dull expression.

Lime of my life, always seen as option two.

Overlooked, undermined, rarely overused.

Life gives you lemons; you make lemonade.

When life gives you limes, all ideas fade.

Life judges me, fatal glances from scalp to foot,

From highest hair strand to where the lowest toes stand.

Life grabs its hand like the dropping of an hourglass’s sand.

Presses the lever above my head: darkness and a flash of red.

No more blinks cos I am dead.

My hope is dead, like a hapless soldier who died in vain,

Like a new mother who died in pain.