This corridor is empty but for
The tears and footpaths of others;
I walk it knowing it’s been tread before,
But still I clutch my cloak for cover.
My countenance to all is
Beseemingly obvious in sadness,
(For feeling something amiss)
As my eyes watch my feet with dreadness.

When Love is explored yet not
Answered in kind, one is alone;
Weariness of some kind of drought
Forces the question of if her heart’s sown
With the same seeds as mine,
If the fruit which it grows
Seems so different in kind.
I must remember that we are of two separate minds.

This corridor is straight—I wonder what lies below.