Thinking he’s lost his own soul,
But his soul is not what’s wrong.
He’s found his love a blackened hole,
Searching for the joy that was once so strong.

Meaningless are his daily tasks
So pointless is his life-long plea…
There’s one question he always asks,
“Why does misfortune always seem to rain on me?”

Shall he take a different path,
Or become a slave to his own trap?
Will he figure out the compass’ math
And find in his future a guiding map?

Wishing back the power he lacks,
He cries into the starlit sky.
Caught within his useless acts,
Is his own heart trying to die.

-