Exasperated, exonerated, running all in between,
Despaired and impaired something not quite seen.
The sigh grows long and wide,
Worried at the worlds inquisitions.
Burning with a fire that is still hidden,
Bide the time or bite the bitten.
What face of fear conquers the weak?
Is it the worlds or the one who looks back from the mirror?
The question is answered by oneself,
I ask in order to know.
What makes you stop and what lets you go?