As of late, I've craved an overwhelmingly shrouded sensation,
One dark enough to tint the truest desires beneath my soul's well due emancipation.
Shared thoughts merely lead to satirical standing ovations,
Critical minds breed a generation lacking original creation.
Awaiting a universal remedy has grown me impatient.
Losing sight of faith-filled days and youthful promise.
Looking back on long lost memories, I question how I ever sustained any sense of solace.
This world is testing my tolerance.
These days, my pupils only seem willing to present me with a lack of progress,
But through each unfortunate instance, one must manage to remain modest.
Envisioning, rejecting, drifting…away from a desired Gate.
And now I can't help but wonder if I deserve this Fate.
Or perhaps this is previously determined, something far from my power to create.
Irrelevant, as I continuously allow my sins to accumulate.
I long for the day my shadow of existence finds the ability to illuminate.