On the steps to madness the road winds endlessly; the hands of the damned grab at your ankles and gesture for solace in the warmth of your soul. But this path is not for the tender. The beating pomegranate, bleeding its juices into the throats of spectating ghouls. A true husk of a man walks this path alone knowing that the end will come some day, but not in his lifetime. A purgatory allows for no settlement, as Death’s boat taxis; passing you by on the road to the abyss, delivering the whip lashed spirits to a life blind of fate. You, the glassy eyed stranger, can only watch under the dying tree of a world and question how many leaves will fall till your bones are brittle. Dulling of reality like how the clouds seem to lose each other in the omnipotence of their grey being. You can lose yourself in the heartbeat of the wind when it carries you away to the past, presently calling for a do-over on your mistakes. Heavy is the burden that your future leaves for you.