A Moral of Fates and Folly

An Author’s Hope, though bright and bold,
Fades like ink when pages fold.
Yet truth remains in between the lines—
A tale of folly’s grand designs.

A TrinAmoral of Fates and Folly

An Author’s Hope, though bright and bold,
Fades like ink when pages fold.
Yet truth remains in between the lines—
A tale of folly’s grand designs.

A Trinity of virtue’s call—
Faith and hope, yet pride must fall.
For she who weeps with open heart
May tear her fate and fall apart.

Of Modest Confession to Our Lady fair,
A sinner bends in silent prayer.
Faltered Feet have strayed, undone,
Yet grace may find what pride did shun.

The Cautionary Tales remain,
Of children’s ruin, fortune’s gain.
For some, a lesson sharp and true,
For others, naught but ashes blue.

One who always Did what’s Right,
Amassed a fortune, shining bright.
Another played with reckless glee,
And suffered woe—so heedfully.

Cuckoo! cried the mocking chime,
A clockwork tune to punish time.
A drinker mused with ruby lips—
On Burgundy’s Excellence sips.

The Politician, well adored,
Had A Dog whose speeches stored.
Faithful, true, yet fate unkind,
For beasts reflect their master’s mind.

Through cities paved with gold and grime,
In Habitations lost to time,
A pauper gnawed on bits of string—
A death most wretched fate did bring.

The maiden’s steps, her final call,
A shadow cast—a Role so small.
The heretic and drunkard’s jest,
A toast to fools, to wine, to rest.

For some were frightened by the roar
Of mindless thoughts racing evermore.
While others fell to sin’s embrace,
A shining boot—a fallen face.

So tell me now, Is It True?
That beasts were meant for children too?
Does virtue win, Is sin repaid?
Or is it but a game we’ve played?

Is there any reward? I ask—
For ink-stained hands and poet’s task.
For those who wept and walked the line,
Or those who drank of bitter wine.

For one who weeps, for one who falls,
For one who knocks on heaven’s walls.
A caution, reader—heed it well,
only in time, truth may tell.