an Ink'ling towards our dreams

A child dabbling in schemes.
Life’s an ever going sympathy.
Doctrines, pages written in the ink,
of our dead dreams.
Forgotten, an outcast embassy,
of deeper understanding.
You can search the shelves, though
no matter where the story goes,
character, forever on its own.
Life sometimes seems to be the foe
Not the prose to behold.
A child plays with toys,
till that he or it grows old.
The ink that seeps the sheets.
Not knowing what a life means.
It’s the martyr, girls and boys,
he who falls into routine.
Each pop that clasp the cheek.
These babies blowing bubbles,
forced to follow stories,
as if they cannot speak.
Will one day hold the pen that
dictates what we think...  

                                        Is it written to end?