A body exhausted, full of dead bodies of former selves
Sunken blackened eyes, deep wrinkles in the forhead
Hands that shake and hum, with no true stop
A voice that is weak, fatigued at the mere action of speaking

It is a trial of pain, that it has to go through
No sense of peace or content, only dread and struggle
Wandering aimlessly in a fog
With no hope of finding direction

Is this the fate we all share?
This connective tissue of the human condition
All that we are born to do, is simply exist
With no real hope or happiness

I do not wish to believe that to be so
But, as these days grow longer
And my will loses more and more petals
I am unsure that I can see the better angels