Woe to him who be filled with dread, <br />Who doth rot from within like old loaves of bread. <br />Or to he who be encumbered by heavy heart, <br />Who hath found it replaced by lead. <br /> <br />Let he be known, for he is right, <br />To secede from conflict and race forth in flight. <br />For those who think see truely in their unseen of hearts, <br />Such mindless revelries are blight. <br /> <br />Even though one be used to sound, <br />He will find his world silenced under the ground. <br />Piously adrift in the waters of the deep, <br />Ailing, he cannot help but drown. <br /> <br />Wishing for an easier way, <br />Despair drives him to crawl on hand, knee, and say, <br />'Woe is a goddess in guise of a humble saint, <br />And she steals men's hearts as they lay! ' <br /> <br />Is there no help for such a man? <br />Is there really? Is there anything that can? <br />Show me, show me, and, perhaps, I shall believe you... <br />For my mind is like running sand.<br /><br />Orran Ainmire<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/death-poem-musings-of-the-wanderer/
