Stale Grandeur Of Annihilation
For I am awake among the overfed
by Anthony Weir
sleepers of Hell: for truth is the stair
descending to despair
and rising thence to more abysmal truth.
For just because I'm dying doesn't mean
I'm dead. And where
are the killers of the pain of consciousness?
For beauty dies where comfort lies.
For I am exhausted by the fight.
Why am I struggling to compose the poems
that nobody else
seems to have the guts or perception to write?