We walk these broken roads.
A million paths parallel
and resembling each other in disrepair.
Our eyes cast down.
The dirt covers us like sin
and we feel too far fallen for prayer.
The weight we carry is our world.
The pain of knowing no one cares
and that we are nothing to anyone but mistakes.
Some people turn around and go back.
Try to relive the past and fix..
But we can't change, can't prevent old heartaches.
Some people find a big old rock,
sit and embrace pain like a statue.
But sitting still means accepting our agony.
Some people trudge onward.
Stubborn and unchanging.
'Til one day they drop, dead or just weary.
The most broken, eyes blind to a future,
will fasten a rope, or find a ledge,
or a deep enough stream.
They are not weak, only fatigued.
More so than anyone could see.
If only they felt they had the air to scream.
Far too many souls
born to walk these broken roads.
Far too many lost to their own hands.
But sometimes a walker will look up.
Seeing their fellow traveler
they will leave their road as it stands.
Give them a shoulder to lean on.
Give them water from their own cup.
Teach them skills to survive the war torn road.
When a walker gives of themselves.
When they let others know they are not alone.
The good deed is heard and it's benefits echoed.