Desolate

Bereft of hope, he aimlessly wanders the desolate plain,
bleeding tears of madness cling to his hollow face,
and run with a maddening descent, mocking him
in their relentless pace down the crags of grief,
while his shoulders slump with defeat and agony of the lost.
He once mocked the every attempt of irony to destroy him,
laughing off the struggles of despair to claim hold,
but now the battle has been lost to him and in that moment,
that one moment when he began to feel the sweet grasping hope,
that was when he became shattered for the world to see and mock.
Now he wanders on, slipping the bounds of pain,
waiting for the time when the winds come to swiftly sweep
him away to a place that knows him not and cherishes his burden.