To the Good Old Days,

You have left me immediately,

Without saying a goodbye or leaving a note.

Mediocrity, what an evil surprise.

Devouring my soul and feasting on my happiness.

Time has made me a wandering ghost.

Scavenging without purpose,

Yet begging for a miraculous moment.

That unstoppable far cry,

Dreadful and agonizing.

Waiting for the presence of the miracle,

Fingers filled with blood,

Body covered in dirt,

Endless tiredness.

Yet he knows,

The miracle will never come

For life has cruelly taken the privilege

All that is left is a wandering ghost

Living in his own madness

Years have shared the cup with the wicked,

He knows the scavenging has come to an end

The prize is lost forever to the cruelty of unknown

Yet he begs once more.

The promised land will let him meet the miracle again.