Discontent

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