Pen to paper and still continues the thirst, left wondering why even drink?

Hungrily, dehydrated hands grasp a a cup of glacially cold curds and whey, Wondering when will the day,
Evaporate into still mists of night,
With friends and fiends in sight,
Of the ever watching elipitical eyes,
That watch, and watch and fry,
The mind standing behind a screen,
In dozens of dungeons, miles in between,
The mountains that form the valley of the ache,
Thundering land under seems to quake,
Of non exsitant control scheme,
Ripping the clothing apart at the seam,
Of time, here in the present,
Backwards to the end.