Who will come...? Edit 2. Rowens, brownlie,milo and true

[Brownlie]

Edit 2

Who will come….?

The first was never meant to live: in this new world, in these harsh times.
The wheels that scarred, the piercing scream, the life that flew to death
like Destiny, in bold pursuit of what was always going to be.
He will not be at my party.

The second did not see the scythe; the silent touch, the stalking kill.
At once the rheumy, running eyes were tearful testament to time
and to the constant draw to earth, that pull of gravest gravity.
She will not be at my party.

Then hope held firm for promised years until the third stepped off the stage.
We did not know, how could we tell? We knew no reason for the loss.
She turned to say she felt unwell and faded into endless sleep.
She will not be at my party.

The price we pay for life, it seems, is by the lives of others met;
a time in joyful summer days will stretch out into years until
the debt is due and called in on the few we hold, and then they part.
They will not be at my party .

RSVP becomes a wish. We look into our book and see
the crossed out names, the struck down stars;
we sigh and try to fill a room with friends that still may be.
Will no one come to my party?
tectak
2013

Edit 1
The first was never going to live: in this new world, in these harsh times.
The wheels that scarred, the scream that pierced, the life that flew to death
like Destiny in bold pursuit of what was always going to be.
He will not be at my party.

The second did not see the scythe; the silent touch, the stalking kill.
At once the rheumy, running eyes were tearful testament to time
and to the constant draw to earth, that pull of gravest gravity.
She will not be at my party.

The hope held firm for promised years until the third stepped off the stage.
We did not know, how could we tell, we knew no reason for the loss.
She turned to say she felt unwell and faded in to deepest sleep.
She will not be at my party.

As if the price we pay for life is by the lives of others met;
a time in joyful summer days will stretch out in to years until
the debt is due and called in on the few we hold, and then they part.
They will not be at my party .

RSVP becomes a wish. We look into our book and see
the crossed out names, the struck down stars;
we sigh and try to fill a room with friends that still may be.
Will no one come to my party?
tectak
2013

I will not comment on technique at this time, because I believe there are others here who can do that better than I. Regarding the substance of your poem I feel it can stretch beyond the party and explore the theme of time and aging. This sort of sounds like a soliloquy but I suppose you could say that about many other poems. There is some redundancy but the various instances where redundancy occurs add to the dramatic tone of the narrator. Perhaps you could find a way to keep the alliteration and do away with the redundancy. Any time a narrator is lamenting it is made more poignant if there are preceding events that lead to it. Think of Shylock's speech in Merchant of Venice. Take the thing alone and it is not as powerful as in the context. Poems don't necessarily have to be profound to be good they just have to sound profound (I am not saying your poem is superficial just musing on the nature of the art). Sorry for my digression I enjoy the analysis.