Turning in,
I fight to fall and stand upon the ethereal
where wise men die and bad credence comes to those who wait
for natural paths and ventured losses, nothing gained.

How many routes we could of chosen,
yet here we are with greedy hands and ****** noses
Fighting for it, living for it
The note apparent,
our bodies vessels with no inhabitants.

We could have been the routes that flourished
trees and growth and youth in hand with knowledge
instead we look at our foundations
a ***** root,
a spoiled promise.