What could I express
For I , in all my drudgery and hurt
Have nothing but pain and apathy
A gift by your presence
Willful hurt and your presence just emasculates
All I have to show is a pretty song and a few words
Such is the plight of those I see
And their songs are like a Georgian chant
Echoing in the choir
Underneath frescos of love and bullshit
Faux Pas , yes so much so
How should one dream
When the dream is forever riddled with hurt
A curse , maybe; a gift! Who knows
None for me to ponder upon
For the barley and hops drench my soul
A dash of whisky, or a soulful ounce of vodka
Either helps
Numb, for you rather have me numb
Better numb than seething with rage
Of a hundred trespasses you relish
Wilful hurt, yes, wilful, couldn't be otherwise
Could it?
So is the song the loners sing
And as I join this disdain chorus, so innately inane
Yet as a fool's errand I tug
Knowing this like all else shall be dust
For these dreams I have are unspoken
They cannot be for your hurt are its precursor
Yet you often ask why I won't share
Did you introspect?
Yes did ye?
None as such shall corner me
For the ship has sailed forlorn
Launched by ye Helen,
Ye who hath launched a thousand such ships
This is not Troy, and there shalt be no horse
Wooden with sneak for I shalt just bide
My time and wait forth for the love to subside
It does, hasn't it for you?
It has has it not!
I wonder, yes I can
And you wouldn't care for you see none
For you are blinded by prejudice
Of broken bridges and shattered dreams
Like mine yours
Yet mine were not ulterior
They were yours
Let me dust this enclosure of clay
That holds my soul, for it is time to realize
I will be gone soon,
And all that remains shalt be
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
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