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.
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