The Rut . . .

The clock repeats its hollow song,
days march in lines, all gray, all long.
I wake, I work, I breathe, I sleep,
a cycle wound too tight, too deep.

No faith to hold, no flame to chase,
just echoes in an empty space.
The world goes on, but I stand still,
a shadow bound to someone’s will.

Dreams dissolve like smoke in rain,
promises rot, and efforts drain.
Hope — once a whisper — died unheard,
a language lost, a broken word.

I move because I always must,
my body clocked, my spirit dust.
No prayer, no path, no saving call,
just walls that rise, and walls, and walls.

And if tomorrow looks the same,
a weary life, a tired name —
I’ll keep on walking, though I know
there’s nowhere left for me to go.