Poem
Still not much left to be
My whole life; a parody
Of learning to forgive
What was done and the ways in which I live
A spirit full of wine
Dust and ashes make their playful signs
An equal to them all
I’ve played the god and I’ve played the fool that falls
A statue carved in ice
I sculpt my hate but I make it look so nice
Numbness in the snow
I make an angel but she always seems to know
There’s not much left in me
What is left is a melody
Of trying to reprieve
What was done and why I will leave
Still not much left to be
Every fight is a lie to me
Transcending into night
But I know that what is done will always find the light
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