Through longing, for fear, in desperation;

beneath darkling clouds of creeping despair

so familiar to his moods, somewhere

and somehow, he still seeks reparation -

 

through himself, for his ambitions, in all

the dreams he had, lost in long, time-wasting

days of mental dissolution. Blasting

away the smoke clouds, following his fall

 

from grace, anent the relentless chase through

steep canyons of deep loathing proved the waste

of all potential. But how, in such haste

to change, could he make amends? Was he too

 

late to try? Had he the strength, the resolve,

the gumption to make the attempt? Each day

he woke to these churning doubts; each delay

of time wasted, dithering, served to halve

 

his commitment to his cause. He lost strength

with every year misused, and found his will

to go on wouldn't translate to the still-

resolute pursuit of his dreams. At length,

 

he realised, he'd found himself, still here,

still mouthing empty promises, and these

worthless words; tomorrow he'd still not seize

the day. Defeat deformed his atmosphere,

 

distorting spacetime to a thin stipend,

a mere existence. Lest he bested it

(trust me when i say he'd never tested it)

it would torment him to his wretched end.