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Poem

in this unexplained feeling of drudgery there is a discontent.
omnibus clouds of insecurity circles around;
It's much like vultures waiting to consume the dead remains.
the chill in the bones restricts the breathing;
And each exhale leaves one only gasping for the next breath.

I who am the receiver of such have often lifted up my hands;
To the powers that be in a plea for mercy.
none comes and tragedy seems ever more realistic.
there are no quick fixes or medications that can cure;
And time appears paused and moments travel at an infinite pace.

Can this be my time of unpayed retributions?
Are they oversights committed in days so new?
A plea of innocence due to lack of intention carries no merit;
and I stand before life's juries as convicted.
Life has come to a full circle and I'm left with nothing but to pay.

There are few conclusive messages to be found in this writing;
There may be those who find what they consider intellectual meaning;
but I who live each eternity moment by moment find none.
I live only to inhale my next breath;
While hoping it wasn't my last.

this must be in truth the winter of my discontent;
And I question what hell has that surpasses this unholy existence.
My hopes that I once dreamed of, now emanate an oder of decay;
And perhaps the simplicity of this mystery is,
That my days grow few and my payment for the past is discontentment

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