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Poem

Their destiny, or whatever was left of it,
Was shown to them in black and white print.
Their property and earnings were neatly split
"You kids can't wait till we are dead, now isn't it?"
The old man's words were laughed off by them, although they were not a jest,
The words carried utter disappointment, and a dash of regret.
They would be carted off to a shelter for the old and weakened,
Live in separate wings and meet each other every second weekend.
As the kids and lawyers reeled off on how it was a wonderful opening,
They asked for some time to reflect on the dealing.
As the young blood left for their plush homes,
The lady scribbled something on a note.
The sunset silhouette of the couple showed them kneeling,
Thanking Almighty, even after everything.
Next, when the neighbors found the old couple sleeping forever,
They saw seven words on the suicide letter.
With a will stapled to give everything to charity,
It said," We chose our own dregs of destiny."

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