Destiny
French Sonnet

The tattered, threadbare, weary soul
lacks hope of future happy goal.

What use to dream of brightest hope
when he has naught save thoughts he stole
and now his life's gone up in smoke

His visions once so brightly shone,
a life potential clearly bright
once held creative overtone
and clearly knew the wrong and right.

If time heals nothing, all were lies,
each day his tortured mind begs rest.
And he has learned no money buys
him love, or lets him reach his quest.

Was he a loser, meant to be,
to seek this final destiny?