The stain life leaves is but feversome yet.
I've only just begun and already I hate.
Used is the powerful word I cannot restate.
For it is harsh on the ears and much more on the faith
Of living passed all that is hard.
A memory in progress
Is presently fogless
It's current and fresh
But this isn't a plus
It falls under a plight
A darkened room with foreign doors and keys that seem as foreign or more.
A possible way of escape does exist
While a vague implication is made and insists
It's sealed in pain
A false lore of such
Can't result in much
But dust on the mind
And dirt on the floor.
It's left me with nothing desired.
Desire's a chore.