Beware of the man
with the sharpened wit
He be a swordsmen in disguise
Using the air in his lungs
he duels with his tongue
splitting damnable truths
between lies

Oh sometimes
how the grateful mistake
scratches the itch
of self-loathing

The longer we live
the less we know
and the more
everything
becomes our teacher

Always in the back
of things
Behind a curtain
A shadow
A silhouette
Never blowing a horn
There was no horn to blow
no air in the lungs
no will in the legs
to play and march
in a parade

As the sun peeks over the edge of night
he slowly opens his eyes
and wakes not with an eagerness of spirit
He grows weary of battle
For this love and hate of himself
is always at war
and if there is any lacking in his resolve
victory for love will be hard-won
if won at all
Fatigue will plague his every moment
until the darkness grants his leave
It is then he can close his eyes to sleep once more

The dam of tears
has more leaks
than the child has fingers
He knows that if the dam breaks
there will be no surviving it
Another casualty
in the land of Nod

Wise man say
that a valiant effort
can never be anything less
than a righteous failure