Crusader without a cause. Maybe a curse. Lay down your weapons. They rust. No call for help reaches the ears of the hero. No purpose saves the routine existance. Your services are not desired by any. All you have to give is your hand. Now do you understand? Languish alone. Sit in the hard dirt under the tree by the road, in cold shadow and wind, and wait for someone, only to pass. Fix them with the same blank stare you allow the sky. In silence, shiver and starve, in stillness, suffer and sigh. The world will not acknowledge you, but weather you. Wander a while, but you will lay down with only a dispairing hope for some happy chance to save you. How far are you from life? You don't know. Maybe something should come along. You don't know. You lack the strength to consider it, it is vain, you only know you must succumb to sleep. So weary.. grim and dreary. How many know such solemn pain?