this poem really only makes sense if you know the exact nature of everything that's gone on the last couple of months, up until about yesterday.

the end has come to me
as it comes to us all.
in the dead of the night,
softly, quickly, painfully.

as i shuffled this coil,
i struggled not,
for my body was spent
after three months of toil.

i worked for her heart
and, finally (at last!),
things were as good
as they were at the start.

yet i needn't have bothered;
for all that matters in the end
are the pointless quarrels
between sons and their fathers.

Politics

what becomes of the men who die
without a name?
without a home?
without a life?

what becomes of the men who try
to change their fate?
to change the world?
to change back time?

what becomes of the men who lie
to their families?
to their countries?
to themselves?

fuck

and there i lay,
dead in a sea of confusion,
drowning as the tides of love
beat me incessantly against
the jagged rocks of the harbor
that once held refuge from the storm

i'm sorry this sucks...it's late. i promise i'll expand, or cut it if i can't.

softly she whispers,
drawing him in.
calling him to her,
willing him to sin.