Weakened with failure and despair;
eyes blinded with my own hair,
covered in the muck of rejection;
should’ve seen this in the inception.

Cold to the bone are the thoughts that remain,
bruised and battered never to regain,
in a bottomless chasm ever so deep,
where no one can hear my lonely weep.

As the sands of time cover up the trail,
to this slow death there seems no avail,
and it is the most painful of all,
to die from within but live out tall.

A minute you spent on my behalf,
seems an eternity when with you I laugh;
but I cannot hope when I expect nothing,
and I’ve released myself to give everything.

With the last bit of will here I stand,
like a withered leaf on the desert sand,
being blown away by your sweet breath,
comforts me even at the gates of death.


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