Gentle strokes caress my barren face,
They seem to scare the thoughts, whose trouble I have given,
Away from salt sodden rivers, and minds whom I've forgiven.
Treading through the muddy mess, where no soul lays out its heart to rest
But stubborn feet of old men do, they give their best until they're due.
Alas, crawling through the walker's head, a thought unplagued by the saline dread,
Looms upon him in the distance, as an early bird right through a mist;
How could a thought cling to his existence, but never to exist?