although strangely,

nor will, nor skin, nor muses have been kind,

there are bitter sips but i believe i've found my wine.

searched for something in my being to withstand all time,

was there nothing, really nothing between all those lines?

-

could it be maybe,

when people can seldom afford to say what they mean,

it becomes difficult to keep my soul or mouth clean.

until one's own nature becomes woefully obscene,

but camouflaged well enough behind the white and the green.

-

but i'm on empty.

every passing day echoes the same complaints,

every opportunity comes with the same restraints.

and every love develops these too familiar taints,

and i just can't keep up with the pace of the change.

i let a drag embrace me on the exhale,

i am reminded that perhaps,

i have indeed failed.