Philosophical

X marks the spot 
Where they stand 
on this desolate place 
of mind. 
Of wishful thinking 
for those considered 
obliviously blind. 
Blind by the callused hands 
clasping pots of gold, 
close to beating hearts, 
professed to be their own. 
Exhaustedthe sounds, 
that pulsate reluctantly 
on these obsolete drums, 
beguile 
in vile-gray concrete jungles. 
Doomed are these 
trees with rusted cores,. 
that dawn the perpetual 
moss-green walls. 
And yet they wonder? 
As X marks the spot, 
where they linger still. 
Y, I ask myself?