In my room, there's a bare wall....
Scratching all along the sides
Marks where leaves will fall,
and holes where a mouse hides.

There is not a stereo, nor a closet in my room
No air conditioning, a soft bed, or carpet floor.
No radio, just the sound of my doom
And the blood stained floor, the symbol of my war

I am a waste of life,
And I have no escape,
I live in memory, that of strife,
For the rest of my life is raped

I can dream of the outside,
The warm days in Paris as a child.
And The wife I loved, that I left behind.
So I let my thoughts run wild.

And running also is my regret.
Of the life I lead
And what everyone here has left behind.
Of endless lust and endless greed?

Or Endless Deep?

Copyright © May 5th 2002 Joseph Michael Egan