Soul, I am just worn out and tired;

With all that into which I am mired.

This mind of mine is stuck

With intense scenes of endless muck.

Oh, at times there are bursts of glory,

But not enough to be in my story.

A story deluged with endless rot,

Of cries and screams and running snot.

I am in an endless seeing

Of death, sickness; no reason for being.

I sneak along this highway of life

With beckoning doors of eternal strife.

A razor, pills or noose stops the dread;

Or perhaps a raging bullet throyugh my head.

Some may think this grisly and dire

But, if you have been through the fire;

It is always right there, riding beside you.

Close to the surface, claiming its due.

If light and love fill your life as it passes,

Perhaps you are looking through rose colored glasses.