Nothing Is Ever Fulfilled
Angry ragged cloud cover hangs like a dim vault of iron breath
Slow-moving ash hides the forgotten pathways to the heavens
While conspicuous lightning flashes on distant mountains
Beneath this gloom, crumbling cities, meek souls, and mayhem
Towers stand like petrified sentinels guarding the greasy wastelands
The air tastes caustic, like bitterness, despair, and final endings
Clinging to the tongue with the knowledge of forgotten places
Those who remain move with zombie-like precision
Hanging arms, bodies bent from unknown toils, eyes hollow
The knowledge that dawn remains a forgotten sight
Lost for so long that even the memories can’t be conjured
Burning heat from a sovereign that once crowned the heavens in gold
Now and icy memory kept only in the fractured archives of a few
Or the hollow pages of faded paper bound in worn leather
The old tongue spoken there in those texts, imagined but without form
Time itself hath grown diseased, how it doth not flow but festers
Oft pooling in the stagnant hours, while passing became refusal
And offering merely a ruse, for no moment was worthy of being held
Those lost seconds now a relic of something forever lost
Each breath a quiet trespass against a future that will never accept it
Tis true, but the stories and their ancient words meaningless
When children are born with no wonder in their eyes, or no eyes at all
Now a preordained weariness, despair bred into them
Never knowing the pleasures of simplicity, or of light, or joy
They do not ask why the world is the way it is, nor do they care
Questioning is a luxury of those who expect optimistic replies
Better off to shout to the sky and wait for the echoes to speak
At least there a fleeting chance to interpret the noise
And so, the living endure some kind of existence
Not with hope, nor even with defiance, just a dull continuation
Struggling day after day, a procession without destination
A prisoner’s march through fences of twisted metal, empty dreams
Unwillingly embracing the tendrils of a dying world
No grief for the forests that turned to memory, then myth
Nor the teeming oceans now acidic pools of certain death
These wretched husks, by some forgotten motivation, simply continue
And in that continuance hides the cruelest of cruel truths
That existence no longer has meaning, none whatsoever
The world goes on not because it must go on
But because it has not been completed subjugated
Life, even though splintered and on the edge of the blade
Still holds something worthy, but what it is has been lost
Mercy, if such a thing still exists, has already taken its leave
What remains is a wasteland where nothing is promised
And nothing is ever fulfilled
Additional Reading
R.J. (Ralph) Schwartz is an American poet, author, website owner, and online publisher. His writing spans several poetry collections—ranging from spiritual and romantic to fear-driven explorations—and even extends into science fiction. Notable works include:
- Normal Was the First Casualty – A Collection of Dystopian Poetry
- Hope – Inspirational and Spiritual Poetry
- Things That Go Bump in the Night – Poetry of Fear and Fright
- The Lover’s Thread – Poetry for Couples
- Poetry of the Human Condition – The Ups and Downs of Modern Living
- The Secrets of the Moon (a sci-fi novel co-authored with his son Sebastian J. Schwartz)
Schwartz’s work is described as purposefully wordy, richly descriptive, and thematically grounded in nature, romance, antiquity, and forgotten histories. He writes regularly on platforms he manages, including The Creative Exiles, a collaborative venue for writers, and The Gypsy Thread, which delves into offbeat histories, pagan lore, and poetry.
- The Gunfight at the O.K. Corral - May 11, 2026
- The Spring Collection - May 8, 2026
- Faces Without Names - May 6, 2026
