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Ready, Go!

What becomes of love?
Do lovers drown
At the sand's edge swept from the sea?
Do the pangs
Of their wanton deeds break them down
To be
Little more than voices in the wind?
What becomes of dreams?
Do children play
in the pool's flicker fade?
Does regret of youth
Destroy time's escapade?
Little more than doubts in the end.
And so we wander to and fro,
And spite from where we bleed
The soil, we grind and sow
And spite from planted seed.
Do flowers ever cry for sun,
Or fear cries for the dark?
Do you mourn for what you've done,
Or jump before your mark?