Through a stream of stillborn tears,
a bugle sounds, a summon for duty.
Amidst the grapple with unchecked fears,
a heart pines for unending beauty.
Victory awaits beyond the sea,
uncertain it is, if it'll stand to see.
The sight ahead ceased to be,
as the mind doodled in fantasy.
Fingers that love fondling colors,
cannot be forced monotony.
A soul from a garden of flowers,
can only wander aimlessly.
The threshing under pointless misery,
befell the only one who wasn't ready.
Skidding on failures' slurry
it's too late for the ship to steady.
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