The Towering Doubt

The cold lonely soul follows the road.
Follows the road in vain, does the cold and lonely soul.
Where eyes in the lurking shadows watch lonely soul. And judges.
Like being watched by archers, with fidgeting faces, wroth with hate, are they; the bearer of grudges.
The trees unlock a new fear;
Towering doubt.
Where dead bodies of the lost, young and old, swing in the absolute silence within this drought.
Wet eyes are just organs making wet organ-eye sounds. With each fling, tears reshapen, the very core within their skull-prison house.

America, the open air prison, where freedom is a jogger with a key; the inmates are indeed, free to leave,
But there is never a need to leave the house.
An open-aired prison, does this wandering house-soul, roam alone