The Bad Months

Who knew the final time,
I laid my eyes on those remnant pools,
I’d lose the kindle to the cinder,
That rested left of centre in my chest,
The tempo slowed,
The beat all but lost,
The last meaningful flow,
The loss of hurt but gain of pain,
Headaches from jumping through paper hoops,
Weeping dry but not alone,
Wishing isolation was a problem,
Sitting amongst bowl cutted company,
Sweating over which stair I climbed next,
But not lost to the truth that was there,
Just sitting on the silver throne,
Regretting what could have been done,
Even though Rome wasn’t lost in a moment,
But built in an evening.
When it started,
Passion was enough,
Until I was the only one who couldn’t count to ten,
And the only thing left was the so called talent,
That I shared with the worst villains,
The Ventral Tegmental Area was gone,
A steel hug could mean as much as anything,
But I just wasn’t that guy.
If I could go back,
I wouldn’t.
Who knows what horrors change would bring.
Isn’t optimism for a happy ending so indicative of me?