The Winding Lane

A walk of sadness

Weary-laden lads walked down the winding lane

And wondered why they felt no happiness, but pain.

Their queries wandered far, but ground they did not gain.

As if the tracks went on, not waiting for a train.

 

With withered voices waning, they cried out for some aid,

Yet the only cry returned was cold silence, the blade.

It cut them deep with sadness, a sorrow that had stayed.

And so they stood so hopeless in the shadow of the shade.

 

It darkened on the road, but darker were their hearts,

For deep within them they were struck with seasoned darts.  

Each one a deadly poison, implanted to impart

The truth that they should have known since the very start.

 

It was truth that hurt the most, the reason for their ache:

That they’d been dead for years, unable to awake.

Constant wandering, constant hunger just for them to take

Joy, happiness, and life, but they would get no break.