Poezja

Not once were we warned of our future’s campaign.
Through time we have become lost souls.
We held goals which were impossible to attain.
We wander searching for the fabled Crossroads.
Lessen the pain with a mere object
Our hearts mended for short times.
Feelings we fail to openly project
Memories we try to erase from our minds.
We share the same direction, 
Though the destination may differ.
Our clothes hold little protection
As the path grows much bitter.
Men grow old searching on this path
And succumb to Nature’s harmful wrath.