Woes of A Weary Traveler

In the Fields of Despair,

Souls weep for their loss,

Cry out in the pain,

Only for their voice to be lost,

Lost in the wind,

Carried away over the soft, blackened fields,

Where its whisper

Slowly dies.

It is there,

In those gloomy fields,

Where I lay down

To rest,

Where I stop.

I have traveled too long and hard

Upon this fiery road

Of life.

I need to stop,

To rest,

There needs to be an end to this pain.

So I lay down on the parched grass,

In the murky fog,

And breathe my very last breath.