3:40am

There is a mourning in living,
In waking every day,
And remaining,
Where the slings of fate can reach you,
And conjure to your mind,
Such futures immaterially real and forboding,
That you pray for mercy,
Pray for lacklustre and dry numb deadness,
That you'd worry people if they chose to hear,
If you chose to talk,
If you made any choice at all,
For once.

Riddled in riddles and overwrought thoughts,
You lie and meander in bed,
Waiting for the fates to take pity,
And drop upon your lap an unearned boon,
So you can suckle on the marrow,
And steal another's life,
In lieu of birthing one yourself,
Like a desperate mad widow,
Robbed of what never came into being,
Through no more fault than chance;
Chance and God's delight,
In your amusing struggle.

Gamble and make and love and pretend,
Anything to alleviate the shame,
Of not being a dream you had,
In a time more myth than memory,
In a world long grown bitter and disinterested,
In you and your kind,
Not enough of anything,
Especially in excess,
A simple modicum of a man,
Not enough to be valued and coveted,
Left to be alone,
And left worst still with yourself.

#HI