Squandered and bleak, pillaged and plundered.
It is a feeling of being desolate and barren,
glimmered with a touch of hope and wonder
that holds you this side of the soil
You don’t want to be so acrimonious but your lenses are more maroon than rose-tinted
Why does it have to be this way?
Always an ache to follow an ache,
And what feels like nothing in between
To soften the blow
Who can dare do this to you
With all your gifts and curses,
Nightmares and dreams
How does one fight that?