You know, he knows, we all know that it's near.
The creaks at night, the dragging, desert days
Are all its warnings - devious little ways
Of threatening the pain we fear the most.
It's not dishonour: honour is a ghost,
Appearing only when we let our gaze
Rest carelessly on false religious haze.
Nor guilt, for all its lingering and pain,
Remaining after never is again,
Suppressible until we find it start
Unshakeably refridgerate our heart.
If only it were lust, a simple sin,
Too lazy in assuming he will win
To battle better wills, or really fight.
I think it's not depression, for the light
Of morning, youth or even drink may quell
Our personal yet temporary hell.
Yet maybe in these rejects is a clue:
Each essence passed or day we're trudging through
A life lacking adventure, passing youth,
Or missing seeing morning as the proof
Of something worth pursuing, we have failed;
We've sabotaged then left our dreams derailed;
And failure's worst when no-one's there to hear.