It Marches On

Written by: deb radke

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]