He silently whispers that he has to escape; Summoning the guardians above -- words of hope; Begs for the clutter to vanish, to finally feel enraptured by life. Clarity distinctively appears out of reach; He grasps onto the olive branch as it abruptly disintegrates; Attempting to cling to any sign of his existence; Praying to find, to be found. To make sense of this chaotic reality he once controlled; Asking for a speck of importance -- dash of recognition; Drizzling explosive teardrops down the curves of his concave cheeks; His fist in the air, his feet on the unsteady ground. Listening for a voice, but not hearing a sound. He shouts screams that he has been forgotten; Swearing at the angels above -- words of hatred. If not found, then he will find himself.