On watery paths one strolls to clarity,
as a way to seek what flows within.
Through fog one tends to plead abundantly,
to grasp the right point to begin.
Blindly one reaches to find the trigger,
knowing the future holds no promise.
Of torn veins, and one is left to linger,
and push assurance into darkness.
A solace’s call disguises merits,
while effort ends a valuable connection.
One can burn attacks in spirits,
when succeeding with the right selection.