On the Road to Shrantashol

The sky like lead, the sun like doom,
A view of dread, we might assume.
A cloak like fear, the humid breeze,
Sounds a melancholy reprise

Of footsteps trod, on silent trail,
A sad facade, with sparse detail.
A mask of pain, the dawning day,
Held tightly bound in disarray

Of hopes and schemes, of fragrant lies,
Of screams and dreams, that paralyze.
A shroud of hate, the blackened sun,
Drains jubilance from everyone.

Upon this path, folk tread with care.
Though brimmed with wrath, they do not dare
To voice reproach, the caustic praise,
That smothers like some dread malaise.

They make their way, through ruinous caves.
A stark display, of dark conclaves,
To breach a dike, of apathy
And wade against Sorrow's debris

That litter floor, that clutter soul,
That some abhor, that some extol,
That blunt desire, kill ambition,
Waging wars of foul attrition.

Though hope has fled, though spirit's crushed,
Though joy's been shed, though courage hushed.
Though Anguish tolls, its dark decree,
Some won't embrace Eternity.

Beyond complaint, they will advise.
Their thin restraint, can still devise,
An attitude, of confidence,
That's more than cursory pretense.

With calm intent, they grasp the day.
Reject lament, defeat dismay,
Master terror, crush wistfull tears,
Define the world as more than fears.