Thrift, Thrift, Horatio!

I have an anonymous source of great write ups.. lovely thoughts, and wonderful poems. Cynical sometimes and sometimes scornful, yet ingenuous.

One of the recent posts caught my attention, ( have posted the same below - the original version) - The poem was disseminating, rays of lost hope and enervated instincts.
I have just attempted to revive the spirit of the thought and change the theme from negative to a little more hopeful, a bit more optimistic.
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The Original Version -
"Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral baked meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio." - Hamlet

The future looks bleak, The present confused.
The past lacerating.
There are regrets now, risks not needed,
Life could have been lived
with a little thrift in dreams.
Days could have gone, Just as meaningless.
But no whetstone,
to break knives on.

There is man who is mad
he wants to make amends with destiny,
who he shunned
but now he fakes knowledge
of fate and and its yarns
he feigns a power he lost
over his own desires

Now he does not know
what use dreams are
except excuses to sleep longer
and wake up a little later
realize the universe is real
and he is but a slave
of someone else's dreams, of someone else's screams


the poets are all dead and now all is matter
riches are to be scavenged
friends are to be lost
none are forgiven
life is just too short

- Anonymous
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A different perspective -
The future is always bleak, the present is just happening…
The past forgotton.
Life cannot be lived, with thrift in dreams,
Only that’s affordable in profuse,
Meaningless when days would pass,
A chance more,
All would ask.

There is a man, whose faith is feeble.
He wants to repent and make amends with destiny,
Who he shunned,
But now he needs to rise, his desires and more,
And shun again,
That fake knowledge of fate and its yarns

Now he must know
Those tiny many seeds of dreams that makes destiny
Are not excuses to sleep a little more
One who pursues, is one who gets.
The universe is real, and this is its truth
That what you want, is that what you get

Now he needs to rise, his desires and more,
And shun again,
The pursuit of someone else’s dream, but chase only his own

Poetry never dies
The search is eternal,
Unending and Timeless.
The path is solitary, the path is long
And life,
Life is just too short.

- Khushboo