A scribe would have to conjure his own language
To tell of such a vicious emptiness
Thoughts set ablaze and burning a path of destruction
Through the forest maze behind my eyes
The only touch is the air, so dry
A frame floating in a scenery with no story
So lost in the disjunct field of worries
Where the sun is a myth
And the moon shines as god
Lighting the night of the wandering souls
Roaming a familiar city where one is always lost
Any turn is a guess at your fate
But you continue
Breath in the sustenance you can extract
Exhale all the trouble and angst
Go forth
Never cower to the monsters
As all around you seems to crumble to the dirt
Can anything grow?
