The Act of Being Human

No man is unknown or all alone
In this age of pixelated passions;
We carry in our backpack
The same brand of anarchy, where
Our promises are echoes of the promises of past
Whilst the question is one: Why the answers never last
But wither away, dust, under each misled gaze
The One way remembered, a hundred different ways
Till after a while
It all returns to this:
Forked roads, Old home, second chances and first kiss