From snow-clad lowlands
to plateaus of peace,
the mind wanders
aimlessly through bodies
assigned to them
once, long ago when they had no choice,
no taste, no dreams,
or heartbeats.
They wander aimlessly as they must,
wander within realms
of their own making,
these corridors that leave them panting,
aching, struggling to catch their breaths, weeping, laughing
in hysterical fits of maniacal dementia,
all their making, their hands and feet,
their minds and feats,
crushing their conscience
under the weight of eons of neglect.