The stifling of a spirit is a terrible thing—
the striking down of a sapling,
the drowning of a dream.
The life lines fray and falter,
the prospects dim and dull;
the mosaic blurs to morass,
the future is unknown.
Adrift amidst the wreckage,
a flotsam most remote;
a vestigial dream ephemera
adrift amidst the hope.
