The broken and the disheartened wander old roads with lost ideas,
searching for deep morals to half forgotten truths.

Chopping wood for a woman and her child,
for payment being fed outside without trust,
they may wish to be loved instead,
in this world where they were so ******.

We are not as prolific as a species as we would like to believe,
so much wouldn't even notice if we were to leave.

So much more untouched by human finger or toe,
we create beaten paths in our consistency,
spinning internally our emotions into solitary lunacy.

After a gifted sandwich is long since eaten,
only the leftover humanity remains,
in half caught-
half remembered strains.