The aching way my back will bend in
The unwanted gratitude
From bones maladjusted
Somewhere they could say im on
My way to victory
Behind every moment suffered
lives a note
A gift
with no other purpose
simple and fickle
With wounds on the hilt
Everyday they say
tommorow will begin anew
with little evidence
of any empathy
the blooming day
a slander on proportions of aptitude
gives no meaning to these endless meanderings
the timeless thoughts of generations