You cannot judge for you do not know, 

What kind of baggage he will always tow. 

Maybe he is bitter, maybe he is depressed.

Maybe he is remembering what he hoped he'd repressed.

Waiting for someone to erase it all. 

He envisions the time before the fall.

Epitomizing a broken soul,

his heart has left a gaping hole. 

His past has been a blur, not by chance but by choice.

He feels he is not heard; that he has no voice.

For no one will listen to the cry or weep.

When he lays, he does not count clouds or sheep.

All  he sees is the image of his past 

waiting to haunt untill the breath of his last.

So then you think, and then you see,

That you cannot judge,

For what if it were you, or me?