Detached, too weary to fight,
Beset by the darkest reach
Of this moonless night,
Only perfunctory protests
Pass over my cold lips
As I sink into this swamp.
Thick thoughts thrive
As they tangle and writhe,
Feeding off a wicked brew
Of self-doubt and despair;
This brackish bile that keenly finds all the chinks in my daily-adorned armor,
Seeping in, rising ever higher,
Swiftly overcoming the lofty perspective
I thought I’d finally attained.
I was fooling myself.
But this is no time for sincerity.
I have one last trick,
One last-ditch attempt
To save a spoiled bastard
Whose spirit is afflicted with
This most pathetic sickness:
Drive-out the guilt.
Do whatever it takes to become content
With having everything you’ve ever wanted,
But never had to work for.
Forget that now, for once, for-ever.
Remember:
You never asked for anything.