A meditation on the uneven tracks of toil and the ghosts of destiny.

We rush each day from sun to sun,
Toil for the fruit of a withered vine.
We sweat to place food on the plate,
And chase a dream that will not wait.
It flies away like a bird in spring.
The gold dissolves, a ghost in the hand
But bitter memories stay in mind.

Some glide on silk, through gardens bright and grand.
But others move with weary pace,
With little hope left in the race.
They stumble, they rise, then vanish in rain,
And walk through fields of silent pain.
Some lose their strength and leave the way,
While others find ease beneath the yoke.

The wise man says, “It’s destiny,
That life is how it’s meant to be.”
But look at the stage—the lighting is skewed;
The weak are subdued, the rich are anointed.
When lantern flickers and hope feels far,
The poorest bear the deepest scar.
They sweat in the canyons where hope cannot reach.

So who can say that life is fair,
When some have jewels, some have dust?
The stage is set, the parts are cast,
But for the bent spine, the trials last.
Look at the world and see the truth:
Life can be harsh, and fate uncouth.

Concluding Thought: If you feel your spine bending under the weight of the day, know that you are not alone on this stage. The light may be skewed, and the track may be rough, but there is dignity in the persistence. Keep moving at your own pace—because your story is still being written, regardless of what the critics say.

Does ‘destiny’ feel like a fair judge to you, or is the stage as skewed as it seems? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below.