Shave

A gem is hewn from the rubble
Like my face is removed of its stubble

At once it will never occur to me
What this life ought to be
Trampled and walloped
I persist to move on
Through the shades of gray
Towards some unseen paragon
Why do I do it
Why should I speak
A word utters silence
A soul utters meek
A lonesome traveler
Woed to the bone
Drifting and dreary
And wearily... alone
Finding no solace
In pleasures I see
Finding no pleasure
In being just me
Finding no finding
Until findings forgot
What a whithering binding
This blinding I've got
Until something stirs
And unearths the jewel
Inspired by fire
I must have that tool
That could fell a weak spirit
And bring life to dead
I want to be near it
Fantastic un-dread
But I fear I can't follow
So with sorrow juxtaposed
I am the whimpering whining
God only knows
And what of the tool
fit to divine in me
I'm inclined to remind myself
it was never meant to be

A gem is hewn from the rubble
Like my face is removed of its stubble