The madman walks down his empty street
toward a broken door.
He traded his soul for the world,
he’d lost himself to more.
His heart crumbled to dust,
his eyes, bloodshot and raw,
mistakes committed in lust.
His mirror hated what it saw.
The white light at the end of his tunnel grows smaller,
his redemption now in an end.
His fear of the dark held hope,
of death waiting round the bend.
He still trudges down his endless tunnel,
not like he used to, but like he always will.
He’s got promises to keep
and miles to go before he sleeps.
(The last two lines
are borrowed from one of my favourite poems by Robert Frost – “Stopping by woods
on a snowy evening”)
No comments:
Post a Comment