He tread past endless gunpowder trees,
and across barbed wired fields,
played with darkness
and lost himself to smoke, he tread,
sowing the seeds of hope
in the the barren hearts of those,
who once walked this road before with hope.
He tread, growing, becoming and waiting.
A new world order abstains,
waits, till to be servile is to be human.
Nothing interlinks its symmetry,
no time to begin its pessimistic design.
By abstaining, in waiting, it simply perishes.
Is he the last surviving
in a timeless apocalyptic world?
Is there no answer to his question?
He speaks only with God, alas!
Loneliness might have deluded man
so far off the truth, that
stories he built solely on visions
remained visions solely for him.
These visions bound him nonetheless,
to a sigh nevertheless,
growing from the contemplation
of ways to abstain from vices
and from virtues all the same,
and from every one,
and all the fears ever encountered by him,
he tread, fractured, across this wasteland.
Through the broken abyss of cold deserts,
on shards of broken glass, he tread,
in pursuit of happiness,
knowing well, he may never attain
such as thing.
And the angels of lullabies, who
were never this generous,
after a single taste of poisonous flowers
burnt with a righteous fire,
raining over old worlds, burning,
filling imperfect oceans with mortal lust.
He too lay dying, abstaining
from whispering your name in vain.
For he saw your love, like it was the sky
spanning over these troubled waters,
uniting only at horizon, and still only illusion.
And the wrath with which he walked the land
was forgotten as the less human he became.
