[you stumble upon some ragged notes of a long-gone poet]
I am an angle
watch how I soar
deep through the depths
and through waters above
I am an angle
plummetting deep
only to soar back
through nights without sleep
near to the angels
far from most hells
I sit in the silence,
in the shards of my shell
potential for power
yet used all for naught
the key to some lock
that is yet to be bought
[there appears to be more, but you can't quite make out most of it]
why is one stuck
in a loop of inaction
wasting their luck
rotting in their own bastion
[there's a lot of unreadable lines]
the tangling rambles of poematic form
illustrate well the turmoil in my soul
the ennui of existence,
rotting of talent,
yet what shall be done
when there's no goal worthy to target?
[you give up reading, as there's barely anything readable, all context is lost]
