That boy, he sits in a darkened room,
with a tired, despairing attitude.
He looks into his empty hands,
He looks around, and then he stands.
“I can’t take this any more,”
he says, “I fucking won’t.”
That’s when the man steps through the door.
With the blunted end of a broken habit, he leaves
the boy, shattered, broken, on the floor.
That man, he sits in a soft cocoon
of whispered words, shared solitude.
He looks into her fearful eyes.
Her fear’s his own, that’s no surprise.
But he can’t say those few words more,
though all that’s in him knows he should.
Then the coward limps through the door.
With the jagged edge of a broken promise, he leaves
the lovers, bleeding out onto the floor.
This coward self, it nurses wounds,
slouches over unspiced food.
His eyes stay fixed upon the door,
watching, waiting, wanting more.