Philosophical

his rusty, red dagger no longer burns 
turning each day at twelve on the exact same spot 
across my bludgeoned and aching stance of good intentions, 
could it be I've gotten used to the strain 
of side-stepping blood clots making my way 
down this bristling, yet familiar place 
fumbling around as my world continues to 
implode. 
families grow 
relationships play out 
situations emerge 
 
and I? 
 
here with some semblence of self 
 
memories are missing 
laughter is rare, 
love wears a motive each time it teases my way, 
wearing such trite expectations 
doled out on Tuesday 
forgotten by Wednesday 
what has become of it all 
 
is this it? 
 
there are no easy answers 
no cute, clever quotes 
life should be lived 
and not squandered away 
chasing some bandaged feeling of hope, 
hope for tomorrow 
tomorrow is a lie 
there is no tomorrow 
for tomorrow we die

What Now