If we could watch our memories fade
Like dying flowers shrivel
We could see the years be paid
And desert this empty vigil.

I’ve sat alone the restless night
In search of buried skill
But I hate most of the things I write
And lack the vital courage still.

Eventually, I need the sleep
And drag my meat to bed.
I close my eyes to count the sheep
But curse my life instead.

And though there could still be hope
I give up hoping altogether.