Wisedocks

Upon a peak stood Harold high,
Greeting dawn's indifferent sky.
Deep breath drawn from borrowed air,
Once inhaled by souls not there.

"Today's your day!" he boldly cried,
The abyss just yawned and indifferently sighed.
Down the hill skipped his hopeful feet,
His steps echoed in grim repeat.

"You're special!" mocked the mountain's stone,
"Unique as leaves the trees disown."
A leaf fell slow with quiet glee,
A gentle laugh at destiny.

"Live your dreams," the bird chirped loud,
To Harold's ambitions and his passing crowd,
A song reused, a stale refrain,
A whispered truth: we're all the same.

In village streets with empty cheer,
"You've got this!" rang, both bright and drear.
The baker smiled, his endless bread,
As pointless as the words he said.

Harold grinned, inspired alone,
For optimism’s overblown,
Delusion cloaked in hopeful lies,
A story told with blinded eyes.

Stars twinkled cold at day's decline,
Indifferent watchers, marking time.
"Tomorrow will be better," Harold spoke,
Ignoring fate's eternal joke.

As sleep embraced his weary mind,
The universe just laughed while leaving him behind,
"Optimism is a sweet denial,
Each ending's the same; there is no point, so just smile."