Down the path he trudges,
Dirt worn smooth and packed,
The sky looms grey above his head,
The horizon at his back.
His feet are leaden, heavy,
Arms dangle, empty hands,
He's traveled many miles yet
He manages to stand.
There's nothing good that can be found
At his path's end,
Yet still he struggles on and on
As his path descends;
He cannot stop
He will not stop
Until he meets the end.
