When The End Is The Beginning

When the end is the beginning,
and the middle the same as both,
a question of insanity
emerges.

Cold nights -
city lights -
solitude pervading
all.

A drink in hand
is worth two
in the
grave.

I miss you all -
every single breast
and withered peach
below.

I wish I knew why
but I have no truth,
just empty hands
and cold, and cold,
and nights alone dwelling
on my
mistakes.

I don't believe in the future
and I hardly trust
myself.

Sometimes I think that
my tomorrows will only be seen
by those
who mourn
me.