Woe to him who be filled with dread,
Who doth rot from within like old loaves of bread.
Or to he who be encumbered by heavy heart,
Who hath found it replaced by lead.
Let he be known, for he is right,
To secede from conflict and race forth in flight.
For those who think see truely in their unseen of hearts,
Such mindless revelries are blight.
Even though one be used to sound,
He will find his world silenced under the ground.
Piously adrift in the waters of the deep,
Ailing, he cannot help but drown.
Wishing for an easier way,
Despair drives him to crawl on hand, knee, and say,
'Woe is a goddess in guise of a humble saint,
And she steals men's hearts as they lay! '
Is there no help for such a man?
Is there really? Is there anything that can?
Show me, show me, and, perhaps, I shall believe you...
For my mind is like running sand.