One copy-paste drunken night while I tried to write,
My most honest farewell to life; my magnum opus -
‘Ode to Hopelessness’; detailing my internal strife,
Of perpetual bided time, line by melancholic line.
I had seen more than enough, this was my bowing out -
I had fought off the cuff, this was my final bout.

Awkwardly I slouched, balancing pen and paper,
On a pillow as I wrote; seated at the foot of my bed.
My bare desk-less room, entirely ergonomically unsuitable;
Acting as a crucible of doomed creative peace,
Hamstringing my masterpiece, keeping one foot out of the grave,
Delaying the curtain fall that I craved.

Undeterred by back ache, accentuated by July's frost,
I soldiered on strong with my penchant pen march across the page;
Prophet of doom, romantic poet of gloom, cross-hung sage -
Laying waste to the blank space, slaying the canvas’ face of potential.
A firm rebuttal of existence with substantial dooming evidence,
My final revelation to the Gospel of Nihilism.   

As the crescendo of my written swan song approached;
Proclamation of the submission to sorrow, admission of tomorrows veto -
I emptied the wine bottle into my highball glass, a toast to the past.
My last supper ritual without friend, lover or disciple;
Observation of the isolation that had become habitual, suitable for the occasion,
Appreciation and recognition of the Orsonwellian lonerism credo.

I dug in the bedside chest, searching for pharmaceutical treasures -
Lab created capsuled sleep facilitators, numbing agents of corporate agenda.
These venomless, vectorless powdered poisonous incapacitators -
Would close my final chapter with a Cleopatra styled farewell.
Into my hand I emptied the pillbox: insomnia's nemesis, synthetic slumber seductress;
Fluteless charmer hoping to induce a rest of eternal sunsets.

da mihi perpetua una dormienda