Lost

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An aching soul roams the street,
Dumb, numb, unaware
Of the reason of the pain
And how to get rid of it.

A hand that is kind
To it, is merely a shadow,
And a worried heart
Doesn't seem to reach its mind.

Its naive, trusting, hopeful eyes
Does not know where to look,
It neither notices the darkness
Nor the freshness of the sunrise.

The aching soul still roams the street
Looking for solace somewhere,
Looking for the God it had heard of
Day after day, street after street.

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