The night was cold, sitting in a worn chair, a young man, turned old,
for years this chair has endured such pain,
it would seem as if one, could proclaim he knew of none,
but now with a sky void of sun, forced to remember again.
‘this will will not be my dungeon!’ he proclaims
nevertheless as he sat there, his memory regained.
A life so long, it would seem forever, but consciousness not so strong,
everything turns to dust in the end of time,
but to deny what little soul, would be to deny completely in whole,
he is not so bold, as to acknowledge such a crime.
Without speak for years he is a pantomime
this is the end of his climb
Relation to thought, it takes its toll, after an eternity he is taut
bewilderment and madness hidden in plain sight
sense must be made, his own thoughts cast a weary shade
as he stares upon the blade, with-strained by godly might.
by his own decision theres is confirmation on this night
to truly live he must end this plight
returning to his mind, lest his thoughts stray, sits but a sign
deteriorates communication between reason and blame
it must be done now, if he is to find peace, he stands unbound.
as he moves with little sound, to find what will leave no pain
with nothing left there is no shame.