His slow steps feel along the street.
Upon a quest beyond his scope,
And one he has forgot, his feet
Must blindly grope.

His hands have given up and weigh,
Disillusioned, on a cane,
Scarred with the old desires that they
Snatched at in vain.

The question of his eye has stilled,
Though yet unanswered, his wet gaze
Is stagnant with the unfulfilled
Dreams of other days.

And yet the quest of life concerns
His tread; with effort vague and thinned
As a drift of smoke that turns
A little while before the wind—

He moves along a darkened rim,
Like a fissure yawning in the street,
While the life that has eluded him
Still tempts his feet.