Consider you mind, however burdened,
And care for your heart, however frail; Know again that without disturbance, You’ll be found once more in the vale. Worth subsides and I do not adapt.
I, the killer of spirit. The bearer of disdain. I have become so fucking lethargic. Graven pathways too are riddled in obstacle;
I operate on the hope that content may someday be plausible. Though the wares of the spirit do not warn us enough;
Among the crumbling pity, withering rock into dust. The morbid longing that I harbor is of course for you;
The greatest things yet feel like a dream untrue. Within a state unstable, unsure through the years;
Life should always be lived to the point of tears. The authors of heritage tell of our trivial nature;
Insurgents do not shudder in the face of danger. The oxidation of constant routine causes my psyche to rust;
Reach now and you may capture it, my spirit turned to dust. My state of unrest, I sleep in negligible dose;
For I show signs of ruin, but only if you look close. Realizing the life I ought to be living shows a deficit in merit;
Though are few and far between the traits I hoped inherit. When I’m hurried I do stagger, misplaced steps falling to tears;
My wretched breath is all I own, in the defeat of incumbent years. Having not an idle state and ever enveloping in woe;
When the tide of adventure grinds to a halt, where am I to go? |
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December 2018
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