Pick What's Left
In the aftermath of storm and strife,
In the scattered pieces of shattered life,
We stand among the ruins bereft,
With courage to pick what’s left.
The winds have howled, the rains have poured,
Nature’s fury has been outpoured.
Yet here we stand, though souls are cleft,
Determined to pick what’s left.
In homes once warm, now cold and bare,
Where laughter echoed in the air,
The silence now is our new guest,
But we shall pick what’s left.
The broken frames, the scattered toys,
Memories of bygone joys,
Among the wreckage, dreams are kept,
And still, we pick what's left.
In hearts that beat with sorrow deep,
Where grief resides and shadows creep,
We find the strength, though sorely pressed,
To rise and pick what’s left.
For in the midst of pain and loss,
Where hope seems like a ship, storm-tossed,
There lies a spirit, steel-clad, deft,
Ready to pick what’s left.
Among the ruins of our past,
The fallen dreams, the shadows cast,
We sift through ashes, tears repressed,
And find the will to pick what’s left.
In moments frail, where doubt invades,
In darkest nights, through life's cascades,
A spark within, though oft suppressed,
Ignites our drive to pick what’s left.
For every end is but a door,
To worlds anew, to hope’s restore,
We gather strength, though sorely wept,
And gently, we pick what’s left.
In fields once green, now scorched and dry,
Beneath the same indifferent sky,
We plant anew, with hands adept,
Seeds from the remnants we have kept.
Through trials harsh and battles fierce,
Through wounds that time can never pierce,
We heal, we grow, through life’s cruel jest,
With fortitude to pick what’s left.
In friendships lost and love’s lament,
In trust betrayed and joy’s descent,
We find the fragments, gently blessed,
And piece by piece, we pick what’s left.
For life’s a journey, winding, vast,
With paths unknown and shadows cast,
In every turn, in every quest,
We find the strength to pick what’s left.
Through whispered prayers and cries aloud,
Through days of sunshine, nights of cloud,
We journey on, by hope possessed,
With hearts that dare to pick what’s left.
In gardens once of vibrant bloom,
Now wrapped in winter’s cold, harsh gloom,
We find the buds, in soil repressed,
And with care, we pick what’s left.
For in the rubble of defeat,
In every fall, in every beat,
There lies a chance, a hidden gift,
A moment’s grace, a gentle lift.
In silence deep, in solitude,
Where thoughts are loud and feelings crude,
We find our way, though oft distressed,
And bravely, we pick what’s left.
In whispers soft, in gentle sighs,
In every tear that stains the eyes,
We find a promise, softly dressed,
A vow to rise and pick what’s left.
Through fires burned and waters raged,
In chapters closed and life’s next page,
We find our voice, though pain is rife,
And with resolve, we rebuild life.
For in the heart’s most sacred place,
Where love and loss share equal space,
We find a light, though dimly kept,
That guides our hands to pick what’s left.
In stories told and legends old,
In every heart, both young and old,
There lies a truth, a shared bequest,
That we can always pick what’s left.
So stand we here, in twilight’s glow,
With hearts that break, but still must grow,
For in each dawn, in hope’s request,
We rise to bravely pick what’s left.
With every breath, with every step,
With every tear and fond regret,
We move ahead, through life’s grand test,
And find the strength to pick what’s left.
In life’s grand mystery of pain,
Of loss and love, of sun and rain,
We find a way, though trials are heft,
To rise again and pick what’s left.
So let us gather what remains,
In joy, in sorrow, in our pains,
For in our hearts, with courage swept,
We rise, we mend, we pick what’s left.
In echoes of the past's sweet song,
In shadows where we don't belong,
We find our place, though oft bereft,
And steadfastly, we pick what's left.
Through every storm, through every fight,
Through darkest hours of the night,
We find within, our souls professed,
The strength to always pick what's left.
And so, my friends, in every heart,
In every end, in every start,
Remember this, though times seem stressed,
We have the power to pick what's left
In the scattered pieces of shattered life,
We stand among the ruins bereft,
With courage to pick what’s left.
The winds have howled, the rains have poured,
Nature’s fury has been outpoured.
Yet here we stand, though souls are cleft,
Determined to pick what’s left.
In homes once warm, now cold and bare,
Where laughter echoed in the air,
The silence now is our new guest,
But we shall pick what’s left.
The broken frames, the scattered toys,
Memories of bygone joys,
Among the wreckage, dreams are kept,
And still, we pick what's left.
In hearts that beat with sorrow deep,
Where grief resides and shadows creep,
We find the strength, though sorely pressed,
To rise and pick what’s left.
For in the midst of pain and loss,
Where hope seems like a ship, storm-tossed,
There lies a spirit, steel-clad, deft,
Ready to pick what’s left.
Among the ruins of our past,
The fallen dreams, the shadows cast,
We sift through ashes, tears repressed,
And find the will to pick what’s left.
In moments frail, where doubt invades,
In darkest nights, through life's cascades,
A spark within, though oft suppressed,
Ignites our drive to pick what’s left.
For every end is but a door,
To worlds anew, to hope’s restore,
We gather strength, though sorely wept,
And gently, we pick what’s left.
In fields once green, now scorched and dry,
Beneath the same indifferent sky,
We plant anew, with hands adept,
Seeds from the remnants we have kept.
Through trials harsh and battles fierce,
Through wounds that time can never pierce,
We heal, we grow, through life’s cruel jest,
With fortitude to pick what’s left.
In friendships lost and love’s lament,
In trust betrayed and joy’s descent,
We find the fragments, gently blessed,
And piece by piece, we pick what’s left.
For life’s a journey, winding, vast,
With paths unknown and shadows cast,
In every turn, in every quest,
We find the strength to pick what’s left.
Through whispered prayers and cries aloud,
Through days of sunshine, nights of cloud,
We journey on, by hope possessed,
With hearts that dare to pick what’s left.
In gardens once of vibrant bloom,
Now wrapped in winter’s cold, harsh gloom,
We find the buds, in soil repressed,
And with care, we pick what’s left.
For in the rubble of defeat,
In every fall, in every beat,
There lies a chance, a hidden gift,
A moment’s grace, a gentle lift.
In silence deep, in solitude,
Where thoughts are loud and feelings crude,
We find our way, though oft distressed,
And bravely, we pick what’s left.
In whispers soft, in gentle sighs,
In every tear that stains the eyes,
We find a promise, softly dressed,
A vow to rise and pick what’s left.
Through fires burned and waters raged,
In chapters closed and life’s next page,
We find our voice, though pain is rife,
And with resolve, we rebuild life.
For in the heart’s most sacred place,
Where love and loss share equal space,
We find a light, though dimly kept,
That guides our hands to pick what’s left.
In stories told and legends old,
In every heart, both young and old,
There lies a truth, a shared bequest,
That we can always pick what’s left.
So stand we here, in twilight’s glow,
With hearts that break, but still must grow,
For in each dawn, in hope’s request,
We rise to bravely pick what’s left.
With every breath, with every step,
With every tear and fond regret,
We move ahead, through life’s grand test,
And find the strength to pick what’s left.
In life’s grand mystery of pain,
Of loss and love, of sun and rain,
We find a way, though trials are heft,
To rise again and pick what’s left.
So let us gather what remains,
In joy, in sorrow, in our pains,
For in our hearts, with courage swept,
We rise, we mend, we pick what’s left.
In echoes of the past's sweet song,
In shadows where we don't belong,
We find our place, though oft bereft,
And steadfastly, we pick what's left.
Through every storm, through every fight,
Through darkest hours of the night,
We find within, our souls professed,
The strength to always pick what's left.
And so, my friends, in every heart,
In every end, in every start,
Remember this, though times seem stressed,
We have the power to pick what's left
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