In some cases the journey ceases before it is begun 

     
I am licking the wounds inflicted on me 
by the accursed fate
The rags and dry leaves of the seasons in disarray
lying strewn on a teary path 
The metamorphosis still hanging like an old portrait on the wall
totally defaced with cobwebs and moss
The cry of pain is reduced to a groan
The melodies are dying away into the distant past
I stretch my arms to reach the wafting cadence
while the dreams that sheltered me melt away 
Am I not like the many children of God
whose wants dominate the needs
who scripted my past on these dark pages
Am I at the journey's end that I never began