Which way is forward?
Still, onward I keep trudging.
Standing still is to merely wait,
A task, a chore which I abhor
Onward I keep trudging
Choosing one direction over another
Even that simple task is a dreadful bother.
Why keep moving?
Something inside compels me, drives me onward
Without so much as a guiding star to look upon.
Yet, onward I keep trudging.
Without a star to look upon
My gaze is taken by the blood stained ground
No guiding light is found, nothing is worth proving.
So, why, indeed, do I keep moving?
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