Bleak Winter
My heart is heavy.
The bitter snake of despair coils in my gut, writhing.
I have not looked upon my countenance, but I am haunted.
There is no hope.
Were I to judge my own life, in this, my twenty-fifth winter,
I would cast myself to Hades without second thought.
The greatest things I have wrought have been lies.
I am unworthy of being the harbinger of my dream,
and even without that, my dream is beyond the scope of man.
I cannot be without the pride to respect myself,
and that pride is too much for the world to accept me.
What is the fate of a man who seeks a world less marred?
I am lost.
No, for those who are lost might yet find their way.
I am without a way, without a path, without a name.