The Lost

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A tired man,
Worn out by life.
His face is wan;
He has seen too much strife.
Enthusiasm is dead,
No more does he fear
Except for nothing being ahead;
Everything is drear.
Tomorrow he knows not;
Yesterday fails to reveal.
Life is caught;
Nothing can he feel.
The light is dim,
Hope is no more.
His mind drowned in din-
He sees life at the core.
A jumble of pathways;
All he has walked
Except for one that lays,
The one that he had locked.
But now he ventures
Into the decrepitly dark alley-
The weary it lures;
Too large is its tally.
The lifeless monotony,
The endless abyss,
Drives the grip of insanity-
Never does it miss.
The wonderful grip of nothing;
It offers respite
From the abysmal thing;
It drags the waning light.
He feels the cool, soothing touch;
The ecstatic anticipation;
The metallic hue reflects much-
All his deadly elation.
He peers into the dark;
He likes what he discerns.
Far off a lucid bark;
Inside an unkempt fire burns.
A circular imprint adorns his face-
A harsh, metallic sound;
All his grief he can trace-
None can stop him from going down,
Into the unmapped obscurity.
The lift of an elbow;
A dove cries out to me.
The sad sorrows will not go.
Staring at the waves,
In and out, in and out, in and out
Hopelessness… nothing





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