Though bright eyes may strain,
Murky shadows are all there is to see;
Lungs burning and gasping for air
Are fed only stale time,
Feet search for a path beneath
Finding only thorns and brambles,
And hands made to create
Clumsily seem only to break.
As if thrown into an unknown landscape,
Souls strive for that distant home,
Which much weakened minds
Can remember but a little.