Head stooped, stupidly sniffling, High on fumes of self-pity, The young shed youth Turning even wind sickly. He waits, wading wasted waters, Chasing plains long forgotten. Death, a dream slow, Birthing the righteous sovereign. Nor must he choose — safe to say – Sworn silence or sword violence, Forgive he may To find in dealt deck middle way. Unbuttoned beliefs hung up, The straight path stays tasked at times,