What point could there have ever been
If all you've learned of love is sin
Of everything the way you make it seem?
What truth is there to yet unfold?
What secrets could remain untold
If always truth should spill from every dream?
And underneath, what could you hide?
What awful oaths do you abide
By every chance's circumstance, decree?
I think I am yet wrong again.
And all is as it was back when
This world made horrid sense to only me.
So then should blame fall to us each
Who entered into contract's breach
Of honor, love, respect, but not free will?
Could passion's chalk upon the board
Yet be erased or still ignored;
Its writings teach us nothing of this ill?
No, better it might be if only
Life endured but for the lonely
Ones who trust that life is to be spent
Squandering tomorrow's dollar,
Wearing duty's tightened collar,
Working in this life but to pay rent
On hearts and minds; intangible,
On dreams that find the damnable
Endearing concepts, honored soldiers still.
And with such knowledge, I conclude
This obstinate, this very rude
Rendition of my mind and its warped will.
For everything is different now.
Time finally for the final bow;
Performance, mediocre though, at best.
This time, as demons lavish praise
Their hellish voice as one will raise
No longer questions in my final rest.
