A man paces the perpendicular
Of every other life, no song
To utter his sleepless torments,
No sleep to forget them
Yet the temptuis Hades
Would send forth all manner
Of lustful dreams, only to
Remind him once more
Of his consequential life.
His mind imprisoned within
A clostrephoicle cube,
Pressured down like the
Soils origin, his last breath
Could not deny what
He longs to forget
but not atop the mountain
Where all deeds
Are written in stone.
He will live among the
Lone-scape of his own doom
Chained to his past, unrevealed to
The naked eye, yet still there
Hidden from indigence
The tragedy of our loss, is that
It is not our loss, but his, and
In doing so he has secured our
Fate but also his own.
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