Impoverished eyes
Lacking a subject to fixate on
Beholden to the creator with none to find
Perfection is just that to the onlooker
While an empty soul dances without a partner
Wander the world is a daunting task
Even to the daunting themselves
To be scorned by one who, by death, brought life
Does it end
Robbed from the grave to be brought to misery
Falling through life
Again and again
Nameless to the world with none to seek it
Tethered to the dreary November
