THE PITCH(ERR) OF LIFE

It's not just the Hanging garden, but a hanging land,
over the threaten sea, under a wet band,
No one knows where it will lead,
even no one knows what it will feed.

Victims, gossips, fears and scars,
devoid of emotion, truths or dares,
noises behind, loud and discrete,
Holding hand, to help or then cheat.

The flower they planted are all so dead,
as the water entered the wrong bed,
whom to be blamed for this unfruitful soil,
May it be ruined, but I can't forget the toil.

To restart all over again is no good strategy,
As all we know, it will end up with another elegy,
from the one who wrote about the pitch of life,
but audience cares of no land, but strives.

Book another land, and be another man,
immoral it sound, but nothing is banned,
of no choices, one has to choose one,
demise they call when you opt none.

The face and the base, all for chase,
the puppets so welcome the misty race,
where droplets, smoke, fines are all around,
High bass and heartbeats are the only sounds.

Takers to makers, all gathers around,
Lovers and love bites, lost and found,
Glories with glare, and glare of glories,
Inevitable and unfortunate, yet twin theories.

To apprehend the true meaning is by no strategy,
As all we know, it will end up with another elegy,
from the one who wrote about the pitch of life,
but audience cares of no land, but strives.

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To err is human talks of wasted strategies,
As all you know, it sounds like another elegy,
but who wrote about the pitch of life,
is sitting along to audience to enjoy each strive.