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It's not the endless, raging black
The bottomless fear
The fathomless doubt
Bereft of tomorrow's
Strangling hope
Leaving belief quartered in it's harshly drawn wake.
It is not a question
An unsatisfactory answer
Or recitation from rote.
Not a freak happenstance
Unlikely occurrence
But the inevitable creeping in fast
Of a lifetime reliving the past
Breathed out in each tired sigh
Saying good morning, saying goodbye.
A ceaseless ache in your gut
A drive to sleep it away
A weariness born not of work
But of a sleeping conscience
A sleeping soul
Awoke at long last from it's slumber
To hate what it sees.
Lord stands up the weak
From their penitent knees
But what of those
Who've never stood tall
Who've never stood long enough
To kneel at all?