In the afterglow of prodigal, there is found a sour taste,
One of worthless memories, and of time that was a waste.
A bitterness which became ingrown by neglectful disconnect,
Which thrives on learned indifference and a lack of self respect.
And as for needs, there are not many, shy of another breath.
But even that is questionable, still there is no desire for death.
A ticking clock with broken hands, there's no edge on the knife,
Thus only the heartbeat's contrary to, an empty pointless life.