I often wonder about the loss of hope while struggling to find any remnant of the promised, any sliver of light escaping from a shattered beacon.
As time stumbles by along a cold and desolate swampy existence my guide to aspire deliberately and purposefully commits to a self-induced suffocation of will.
Now where do I turn? A friend turns and a partner gives way; an occupation becomes a struggle to survive and a peaceful room comes to torture my thoughts.
What once was innocent and removed from this world’s devilish state stages daily coups to torment and giggle along the others humiliating betrayals.
It ends in a foreign place and a foreign state. I’ll leave nothing, not a journal nor a legacy. One more stumble of a crippled limb. One more strike by a smiling man.
