sick to my stomach, I wonder the point
not fame or success, neither wealth nor repute
mine—that which I seek
is why

a build to ******
then simply abrupt end
destined to wither and fade—
to die
all this
just for that

man once boy, felt fear
keeping youth at bay
"You're too young to worry, my dear."
mother would say
though from pit, I knew my day drew near

growing in stature, the dark still so bold
if I am so young, why
do I feel so,
so old?
so focused my despair
I emulate that which I dread—
the dead

to sit and ponder
moments slipping
life's force dripping
mood always sombre
by fear my life I waste
fretting ever, twilight oppression
relinquishing life's foretaste

a mustard seed grown to mountain
nocturne's anguish fountain
so dark
a threat to own soul
if love be an answer
its inevitable loss
an even worse decanter

I seek to sooth the sting of death
have I found You?
are You listening?