Down in the pits you go no lower,
where time couldn't pass any slower,
where nothing's joyful and nothing's fun,
just futile fits of frenzy over and over.
No sleep in peace when day is done,
just starkly awake, awaiting a call of Fate -
the one you know may never come;
in no state for a lighthearted gait,
staring into nothing as if struck dumb.
A boat without oars is what you'll land in,
unless you're standing on firmer ground
than most around, and you're commanding
mental armies withstanding incessant sallies
by the Hounds of Hell abounding in one's life,
all crammed in, full of such discordant sound,
tarnishing one's crown as a matter of course.
He knows peace who has forgotten desire,
and doesn't care if he burns on the funeral pyre;
who has forgotten the gentlest, tenderest nudge
toward tentative love - always a smoldering fire;
or the unrestrained, thunderous rush of passion:
a torrent of euphoria that changes one's stride,
banishing cares as if with wine, after a fashion;
or the strain of soft sighs from tremulous depths,
as one blithely slides into the arms of Death -
because in the end one's simply thrown in the fire.
