Tired Soul

Tired is a soul to him as he drifts, asleep the heart will bleed,
through hazy streets ever unyeilding to his lusting;
He would have it another way, but for lack of trusting,
the hand that shades the pains of life he cannot see.
Again the rage, the herald of the path he knows;
yet he goes, he goes to meet the tide, and convince it to slow.
It seems a brittle thing, a leaf perhaps, the will;
lifting high the courage of a child dying of age;
a span, to speak of, or see, only some glimpses from the cage.
Studious; my mark, keeps pity from the kill,
I who speak am this mans soul, and I am dying by his will...