An insurgent's grim dissent against the relentless thorn of time might not change the direction of sands in the hourglass, nor can it's rate of flow be altered. But yes, the elating ecstasy the soul gains is unmatched. While dreading the carpe diem that reeks of the veracity isn't much conducive to pacify your soul, raging feud with the the reality also doesn't abate it's repugnance. Dementia might stifle your strive for freedom but at least that way the soul escapes time's sodomy.

Her somber prospect

Crimson hue on her grayer veil
The mere's stage : revealing it's shade
A somber protest to the darker trail
Brooding her love's grim fate

Engulfed in the darker hours
A spastic note of voidness
Turning into blackened flowers
With the fragrance of solace

Twinkling in her tresses
Are dew drops of an optimistic soul
Kicking in the womb of gloom as she undresses
Telling tales of hopes untold

Yet another pessimist jester
Still clinging on to the hay
Not much awaits his role's end
Silent prayers if heard someway

Darker lights emerging out from her eyes
Constricting the ray of light with it's arm
But when all rays die out
Darkness has its charm