I.
Lines run richly holding the explanation of this year and the burden of one decision (only to regret its beginning)
These are the patterns that sew themselves to us.
That explain our lives as X, Y, &c.
Your years of struggling,
my indifference.
These are what make us Us.
These are the fathers in which we confide, in which we grow
worthless.
II.
Depression is not glamours.
Tired, weak hands are not desirous.
The things we want, that we can't seem to get
for ourselves; those are limitless.
A never ending siege.
A never ending surge.
And for what?
For words?
For the illusion of death?
For the fear of confrontation?
III.
For years of suppression you still are a frail young thing.
I know your secret.
For decades of care you sure are a weak little one.
I know.
For ages of dread you still hang on the arm of stoicism.
I know it.
For sometime now you've been going astray,
going nowhere, going long, getting old.
Letting that black shadow keep you alive.
And I know it.
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