Misspent

Strife is consistent through life and through trap
Where the eyes are insistent the misspent are scrap
Fragmented sorrow all measured in will
A lilt of endeavour to heighten the thrill
The spaces between us; we huddle, on cue
The faces that root us, all muddied and blue
The treasure, inflicted, by rust and decline
A tormented soul with a nick in their spine
Wandering lowly, wherefore does it scald
On the tip of the temple where sadness is mulled