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Forever, there have been wanderers.
The sight of them is blunt and gruesome:
shadows darkening their eyes with sleeplessness,
grey and empty,
withered and faded like a dying bird.
They live without light, devoid of love
lost in a maze of themselves,
marking the paths they’ve traveled with their own blood.
And the beasts called Fear and Lonely follow,
licking up the scarlet trails,
taking nips of the condemned at the end.
Then they scamper off the howl at the black holes,
the ones that devour stars every day.
Nobody sees the stars go dark,
so transfixed are they on the maze.
For in the center of it all lies Purpose,
among honeyed fields of lavender.
But in the maze rains acid tears
and constant whispers of Reality.
Nary a wanderer, the whispers say,
Nary a wanderer finds the end.