I can see the coming dawn,
And listen to the world
As I turn my back on it,
Returning to depths of Hell.
There is a stillness, an uneasy silence,
Found between the drops of rain,
Emphasised with occasional flashes,
Masked by the primal growl of Heaven.
There is a truth somewhere,
But I fear it is not here.
Can someone find lost hope
If no one knows the answers?
I can’t seem to decidedly discern
When my last genuine opinion was.
Thoughts and preferences,
Traced back to old habits,
To the hedonistic demands
Of a three year old child.
And tomorrow, or the day after,
I’ll try something new, knowing full well
Where these desires came from:
From myself, my past and present,
And from the gentle sounds of the rain
Somewhere outside the windows of Hell.