• The spirit wonders 
  
  
  in the moonlit streets
  
  
  
  
  Sometimes steady, sometimes fumbling
  
  
  
  
  
  Running and stumbling 
  
  
  
  
  on the narrow paths
  
  
  
  
  Crying out with a smile
  
  
  
  
  
  Would there be no escape for the soul?
  
  
  
  
  
  Would my spirit never rise to the beyond?

Finding a path

With the onset of each new day

The spirit dies bit by bit

seeking the elixir of true north.

Perhaps the days are bearable

But the nights breathe hard

struggling to climb the mountains; ending up going in circles.

Stepping on the remnants of crushed dreams

Profusely bleeding swollen feet

running after mirage of The Ideal.

Pious fire burns the soulExcruciating pain hollowing the body

leaving not even ash behind.