The wise are always troubled
And the troubled seldom sleep.
For the path is dark,
The shadow's deep.
The past imparts pressure,
Weary woe-marked feet.

The pillow lays drenched.
Sweat beads billow flames of fear.
The sound of all our choices
Rung clear for all to hear.
The cries of countless voices
Found close to passing ears
But ghosts weep most in whispers,
Lest the living hear their tears.