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Poem

Cold walls line the filthy, darkened highway underground,
A breathless void, where daylight never makes a sound.
No leafy shroud to cloak my weary, rugged frame,
Dilated eyes, weak, trembling, and steeped in nameless shame.

I stagger on, my gaze a frantic, fearful sweep,
A rat squeaks, scurrying beneath my calloused feet.
A hand claws at my tattered bed sheet, sharp and cold,
Despair erupts—I cry for help, no hand to hold.

The night persists, its shadows choking every air,
An endless labyrinth, no solace, no escape to dare.
Hope, a fragile thread, is severed, faith undone,
Until a tiny glimmer breaks—a promise of the sun.

I race toward the light, its pull an urgent plea,
But footsteps echo—others run, and now they’re chasing me.
Whispers coil, screams pierce, a baby’s wailing cry,
The fragile glow is swallowed, lost within the tide.

And in that moment, truth descends—a heavy weight:
The darkness isn’t night alone, but woven into fate.
Burdens crush, deceit defiles, and spirits lose their fire,
The voices all around me sing of madness, not desire.

In this unending, bleak abyss beneath the ground,
We yearn for hope, yet drown in shadows that surround.
Still, faint and distant, light persists beyond the veil,
But bound in chains, our feet can't follow, frail and pale.

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