The Crossing

His mind was fresh, his ideals high:
he entered the crowd without knowing why.

He was struck by the panic, the need, and the fear:
the searching and craving, the refusing to hear.
He spoke out in anger, which melted to tears
as he cried in frustration, and aged many years.

So he merged with the mob in its frantic race,
as his conscience screamed with remorse and disgrace.
They laughed, and they pointed, and said he was mad:
and they pulled him still lower:   he thought he was glad.

   And they spoke without listening:
   and they saw, yet were blind:
   they cried, false tears glistening:
   they sought ne’er to find.

Then he crawled from the gutter, and pulled himself out.
He doubted his senses, wildly glancing about,
for the crowd had gone, seeking darker ways.
He stood in the sunlight, beyond murky haze.

His mind was a void: his morals were corrupt.
He had nowhere to go, nowhere but up.