The Barrow

Across the plain and through the mud with burden on my back, I trudge along with heavy heart bemoaning all I lack.

When-e'er I find a moment here of clarity of mind I throw myself upon the ground and thus my hands re-bind.

For every step I carry on, I step then backwards thrice; Undoing progress most hard-earned to wallow 'midst the mice

I seem unable then to rise above my lowly base and then in cognizant despair I fear to show my face

For though I know how I should be and sometimes give a try I fear I'll never quite improve and then in squalor die.

I am aware how I should be I know what should be done but then through some base revelry I turn then from the Sun

I know the answer then is this: to keep me trudging on for though the arrows rain from the sky I must still face the Dawn.