They fight through the mud,
Work hard and let all of themselves seep into their worlds,
Blood, sweat and toil,
Breaking their backs to create,
To create something they’ll never hold,
Never own,
And everything gained is lost,
As they both play mimic,
She hides behind a powder,
And he bends backward,
Anything to fit the mold,
To fit in,
Too late,
The storm has already set in,
And as regret fills their cells,
Wasted youth circling the drain,
A horrid taste of ash fills their mouths,
It’s over as their fibres bend and split and break,
Like whicker,
Left out in the rain.