Corridors piled high on each side,
channel me through life as a slave.
The structure I once sought to have
now is the prison of a soul trapped within.
Stability is the desperate goal,
bulwark against the life I know.
The end result is hell on earth,
no peace found though it is sought.
Debris kept from a thousand days,
testimony of a life once made.
What is the purpose of these monuments
cluttering the landscape of ever now?
Madness is the diagnoses
when dispassion views the aftermath.
Is the soul as empty as the view is full,
has one replaced the other by cruel fate?
Canyons walked through the day,
channels etched as life is betrayed.
Where is the joy when restriction resides
on the road through corridors high?
© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160315.