I couldn’t write
On betrayal,
Or the fact
That I keep clinging
To hope
That keeps bringing
Self esteem to nought.
I have no hope,
In this bed I sleep in,
Nor in these arms
That are weak
With four decades
Of writing,
Nor in this mind
That is frayed with thought
And anxiety,
Nor in this heart
That has been broken
Like countless others.
I have nothing
To offer tomorrow.
Nothing I can see
That allows me
A breath and a smile.
Every one is tainted
With sorrow or guile.
I have no faith
And I know my fate;
So, in both matters,
Hope stands no chance.
Tell me why,
I must bear another day
To the same fight,
When I have always been
A lover of the night?