all my mornings are sad.
all sense of purpose lost.
I have been honest, at least,
but at what cost?
all the news is bad:
the world around me burns
while many Neros fiddle,
and no one learns.
oh for the sense I had,
not so long ago,
of meaning, direction,
of a place to go.
all my thoughts seem mad,
but no madder than the age.
I hover between heartbreak,
despair, and rage.
all my mornings are sad,
all my smiles are fake.
you are with me in my dreams,
but then I wake.
-- GPL Sep 2005 D. A. Clarke