No one can relate to his pain. In darkness he sits, while contemplating the story of his life. The relentless agony; the hurt and sorrow. The strife. He would say a silent prayer, but his prayers haven’t been answered as of late. Walking on a razor’s edge, a gust of wind could be the deciding factor of his fate.

The plight of the sorrowful is a long and winding road through the depths of hell. They claim to love him, but their definition of love is frail and without depth. They speak with forked tongues and whisper poisonous words in dark places. Their hearts beat with the blood of treachery and the darkness of their souls have devoured them. He sits and witnesses their demise from afar, as they unknowingly descend into the very pit they have made with the folly of their deception.

The kissing of lips and tender moments, the intimacy and sharing of love that existed in his memory, have been reduced to rubble. All that is left are sorrow, anxiety and perpetual suffering. The lonely are forgotten and cast into the deep sea of insignificance. Who will hear his silent cries? As he walks on, his cross grows heavier and heavier; love has been a dream, and happiness a prayerful wish. The heaviness of his sorrow is enough to crack the foundations of the earth, and the measure of his pain is enough to fill the seven seas.

Despite his travail, there is still love and a unique passion and warmth in his heart. He survives with raw determination and the memory of his mother’s face is glowing light. Still, rest is not easily found, as he walks into the darkness to face the terrors of the night.