In the stillness, a man sits alone,
Twiddling thumbs, lost in thought’s heavy stone.
The weight of desire twists like a vine,
For the comfort of medicine, a lifeline divine.

Yet, in shadows of doubt, he grapples with fear,
Relying on others is a thought too austere.
The freedom he craves feels just out of reach,
While reservoirs run dry, with no hand to beseech.

Each moment weighs heavy, a silent despair,
For the solace he seeks is elusive, rare.
In the labyrinth of longing, he searches the sky,
Hoping for solace, though the well seems to dry.