Which way is forward?

Still, onward I keep trudging.





Standing still is to merely wait,

A task, a chore which I abhor

Onward I keep trudging





Choosing one direction over another

Even that simple task is a dreadful bother.

Why keep moving?





Something inside compels me, drives me onward

Without so much as a guiding star to look upon.

Yet, onward I keep trudging.





Without a star to look upon

My gaze is taken by the blood stained ground

No guiding light is found, nothing is worth proving.

So, why, indeed, do I keep moving?

Why keep moving?