I just can not do it,
oh not any more.

I'm a rusty wheel still turning,
but the spinning and running,
ended a long time ago.

I'm an empty husk,
the snake skin left over,
from a serpent long slivered.

The passion has come and gone,
as the wind blows from the east,
setting with the cool sun in the west,
and the day turns to black starless night,
so too do I fall into the the pitch,
a quiet hell resounding.

But no devils speak to me,
oh the joys if they would deign to torture me,
no, no, no dear, no.
I am left alone.
The only words of recoil that I do hear,
Are the sharp respites my own mind come come upon,
Jumping up on and and every one of my shallow young boy fears.
The inadequacies of life and the man not leading.

So I'll sit back in this chair, and let life come to me.
I'm tired of ******* and having it feel so empty.
I can fill no wombs, so I'll sleep singularly.
Maybe it will fit me. Maybe my spark will come back.
Or maybe we are all just dreaming.
A dream of future glories, never to be.
And the walls of our reality.
Are always just crumbling.