I feel foolish for how often I grieve my innocence,
the better days behind me now
that its darkly off to war.
All those nights before the self inflicted slaughter -
I will have no children
I will have no wife.
The order of that lament is telling.
I long to disappear into quiet,
no theatrics
no farewell
just a whisper on a westbound breeze
leaving the faintest inclination
in the dark corners of your mind.
You might have known a man once
but you cannot seem to picture him
and you cannot seem to place him,
but you're sure they were there
...weren't they?
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