The summer bade us farewell
as he strolled the river Irwell.
His mind constantly at war.

He perched upon its banks
yet with no reverence or thanks
cast stones to make tranquil, no more.

“How is a man to be himself,
chasing dreams of elusive wealth?”
His being felt rotten to its core.

"Ravaged with external voices
I lament the infernal choices
that made the man I recognise, no more”.

His mind, now saturated with talk,
a well-worn blackboard, tattooed in chalk,
scarred with the lessons of a life that's gone before.

“Is this all some terrible dream
I find myself betwixt and between?
Do I cast myself and make tranquil, once more?

With no more caring and no more knowing,
my empathy deprived from growing
There is nothing left I care to live for, or fight for, I’m sure.

This impotent wail, verse and chapter,
The maker of my own mental captor.
I am broken. An unused token. Worthless now, forevermore”.

The poor wretch's pain was as this city,
Full of promise, yet without pity
Did he fail to unlock destinies door?

Or is it merely just a passing view?
Perhaps. So I put his destiny to you.
Should he rid himself of noise, and everything more?

This ceaseless madness and mental curse.
Would eternal silence be better or worse?
Is this life too complicated to ignore?

Or will this life surely improve?
Could helping others, his torment sooth.
Is he selfish, selfless, or in need of something more?

Perhaps it is not for us to say,
For each of us must find our way
And decide if it is us or others we adore.

But being your only reason
can be tantamount to treason.
Remember that we are part of something bigger. Greater. More.