the night was cold

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.

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