. . . What have you done? Nothing at all Sitting here, as the time Passes; as a candle Flickering Out.
What will you do? Well at four in the morning There is not a lot. Except the cold And the enclosing Dark.
Why did you do this? Well can that be said? Honestly, and bluntly, Straight out would the Answer stick?
It would become lodged. Because words unravel mysterious And mean nothing all at the same time.
Who am I? What a pertentious question to ask. You have no right to ask, Nor mind to conceive it.
What am I meant for? Well to live and to die. Make an impact on someones life, Good or bad, time has no universal code.
What am I doing? Looking for an answer To a question I have about people, And also about me.
Should you lean upon a crutch? What if you are a crutch yourself? What if someone took you away? What if you merely were a crutch to a table? How awful really.
But what is the matter? You've found it! A place for yourself. You see, you do not matter. A crutch, a dime a dozen so cheap.
That is what you get from lack of sleep I guess, and lack of meaning I guess, and lack of health I guess. A crutch that wanders, looking for what it means to be independent or leaned on, and if it is truly a curse or a blessing.
How silly is this anaology? I think it is downright clear. But I am a rambling madman With an end soon near.
As soon I will be gone, this consious shed. I will wake up this morning, tired in bed. I will reach my hands and feel a change. I will no longer feel; it is quite strange.
And I wish I could say I did resist, But I did not. For the immoral base upon my kingdom, Is founded upon my thoughts And actions of sin.
I laugh and I laugh and I laugh. How little will do I have? I am just a piece of dust, Moved by the slightest wind Of dismay. . . .