The Cities of Grief

In the cities of the mournful darkness,

our souls are separated apart by the frustrating grief of black smoke.

The black smoke that paints its grotesque shapes on their monotonous gray walls.

The monotonous walls that mimic a perpetual vicious circle.

The vicious circle of our boring, aimless, meaningless, daily walk.

Walking meaninglessly among the complicated paths.

The intricate paths that do nothing but exacerbate the pains of our parting.

Our parting from the long-forgotten true essence of our identity,

and from the true calling of our deeper souls.

The deep souls that were imprisoned into our throbbing hearts,

and under the sadness of black smoke, billowing mightily in our veins.

The black smoke of our sad songs that created endless frustrating nights.

Devastating nights that spread on our past and on our noon to come.

The upcoming noon that could hardly find any trace of the vibrant pulse of life,

in the depths of our shattered hearts.

The lonely hearts that are always looking for a helping hand.

A rescuer's hand amid the overcrowded and careless roads of the cities of sorrow.

The roads of the cities of grief that can only offer mournful nights of dominating pains for the lonely collapsed souls.

The lonely souls who are still on a desperate search for a savior.

A promised savior who is hopefully still  roaming the desolate roads of the cities of pains.

The savior who cannot be anyone,

except the unity of the dejected lonely souls on the same desolate roads.