The best I can hope for is to lose all hope,
For hope is but the underbelly of fear.
Despite the fact I cannot cope,
There is nothing outside of here.
The day of equal light and dark
Has passed, and, as a result,
Night adds to the torment like a stray dog’s bark,
And virgins mourn the loss of the cult
Which saw them holy, true, revered.
All is hateful, sorry, weird.

Put down the axe and let the chicken go.
Life is nothing which can be curtailed.
Still, my mind is stuck in a vat of dough;
My hands and feet are sweetly nailed.
Out of the gate of sorrow’s store,
A horde of headless marchers comes,
And, while I know that life’s a bore,
It’s not as if it never numbs.
The lack of feeling of those who lack
Is all that keeps me coming back.

Sorrow’s taken the tongue out of my cheek,
And that’s a plus, or so I’d say.
It was always hard to simply speak
When my tongue was in the way.
And, though the nights are drawing in
And my life is nearing its sorry close,
It’s not as if I’m making a din;
I know that’s just the way it goes.
There was a time when I relished fame.
Now not even I know my name.

Photo by JJ Ying on Unsplash

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