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]
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