A night far long, a mind adrift,
A now familiar craving;
A promenade of penitence,
A soul too soiled for saving.

A glass half-drained, a book scarce-thumbed,
A blotter unforgiving;
A bitter cup of fresh remorse,
A life too lorn for living.

A sickly sun, a surly sky,
A pillow damp from crying;
An empty bed, a kithless room,
A day too dark for dying.

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