It Marches On

And even words which once did flow So freely from this pen, Desert me now and fail to show The person I was then. This jubilee you came to see, The happy circus folk, Washed off their paint, packed up the tents; God plays a twisted joke. And now I lay alone inside This wretched room not mine. No more abide, sweet suicide; Complete your tender crime. It marches on without regard; It stops for not a man. If I but could this life discard I would, and start again. [to my friend James, who defeats the demons with grace and honor]