I keep on going,
Though I'm slipping up a little more each day,
I've no objective,
No means to justify a life that's spent this way,
My soul is longing,
It's a tired thing that sweetly calls for home,
This carnal prison,
Echoed upon in every novice poem,
Why hang on to this,
If you really cared you wouldn't even think,
With quiet permission,
You put this soul to rest with poisoned drink.