THE UNSUNG SONG

Abandoned where aleatory fates immerse, Exiled in the Whirlpool of Death we face, Transcending a vanishing star's lost grace, Leaving sanguine possibilities, a Time we curse, Mirroring a microcosm of history in verse. Perhaps in reaction, or rebellion, a world is born: A world mirrored, where whims hold sway, A candle's flame, twice bright, burns half its day, Besotting fiction’s staple, known and long, Dancing to its own drummer's vibrant song, Problems, unpassported, its throng banish away.