I haven't been quite this bad off in quite a bit of time.
The quiet of the quilted night, and silk of summer shine—
Both of these do harm the soul who seeks the dingy place:
The bar, the pub, the smoking room—escape from this rat race.
For quite some time I had forgot, forgotten all these woes,
The feelings of uncertainty, of youth, of loss, of holes.
All of these surround me now, and I am wearied more.
The thought of all that I must do: A locked and cedar door.
But here I press against it, for from here I must move.
There are monies t'be collected, and worth that I must prove.
But urgency just holds me back, and need does paralyze.
The light is just too bright, and darkness terrorize.
And thus you read this writing sired out of grief,
With vain intent to satisfy and bring about relief.
