A weary heart wears a dress of distress
Rivers of words makes his brain a subject like a tyrant
Pain and agony lingers in his soul
He needs a hand but his hands are short to reach a hand
A sea of despair swallows him whole,

At the crossroads
On the ground, he lies defeated.
Bombarded with missiles of confusion.
He sings the same verse in a universe of abandoned calves.

In the patched earth, he doesn't find his missing hope,
Hope is just a luxury,
A luxury, he can't afford.

In harsh solitude, sits him, calling death a blood and treating the grave as a welcoming abode.