Gloom and cross roads, each side a path to ruin,

That shattered hope slowly mends,

A glimmer from that beacon still out of reach, perhaps indefinitely so,

Still, one's path is not set in stone,

Becoming lost…

By being lost one can return to the beginning, or find a short cut to the end,

This wanderer stumbles and falls, willing to forsake all he has,

In the end, this feeling is home,

The path is set,

Without anything, empty and alone, truly may one find that.