Lost are the perishing, care less of dying,
Caught up in pity from outside and within, slowly digging the grave;
Weeping is the erring one, as good as fallen,
They are of nothing, nothing to save.

Though they are slighting them and themselves, still they are waiting,
Waiting to show the penitent feeling in them but they never receive;
Pleading earnestly for freedom, pleading gently,
Hope that one day they'll finally leave.

Can they liberate the perishing ones? Cared enough to slay the captors,
Fortunate are those who are patient,
Hapless are the ones who exploit their vigour and vitality in desperation to escape;
Falling in fruitless instances coming from circumstances of a void consequence.

Neither survives, and no...