The strain of reaching, a resting place,
Verging on parody, this will disappear
Like scraps of paper from little black
Books, the days I spend staring at
Pictures of made lives and realize the
Process, arduous dying had energy
Once, until it was deprived of will
And cause and cursed, it was a
Hallow balance, a rage of endurance,
Someday I will not dream of all I’d
Been disillusioned with, it was a
Torrent of harassment until I
Reluctantly agreed to the lesser hell
But lived on, perpetual motion like
An hourglass, a cracking shell that
Forces a metaphor which only gets
Worse for timely vendettas as a line
Of traitors, how many ways can hate
Be forced upon the unknowable, no
Rage can compete with last words
Appealing to sentiment focusing on
Powerless repetition, for all sterling
Dreams and gold plate banquets,
Ringing with pride in facing death
Honestly, it was the continuity of
Experience that was the worse
Punishment, an archaic explosion of values.
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