A Wasted Man.

I may have missed the boat.

At least that’s how this feels.

Walking through snow, on this cold winter night,

Appears so surreal.

And I wonder if,

I missed the boat.

Was it theology or philosophy,

Humanities of Parmenides,

Or was it something else entirely,

That rowed away without me?

This simple life, with little strife,

Where Achilles turned in sorrow.

Would glory die, and Thetis lie,

To keep death till the morrow?

Modern man knows not the glory,

Of pagan and medieval story,

That spark of soul, and flame of life,

That torturous hope, and buried knife.

But hacked to pieces through the years,

I wonder if.

I know Him whose death I revere?

For dying then he won the crown,

He won the heavens and won renown,

But I have died for what indeed?

This simple life.

This simple life!

I’d prefer an early death with glory,

To be remembered in song,

And carried to grave by surging throng.

But here I sit.

A modern man.

An American man.

A suburb man.

A wasted man.

Oh king of kings, what else is left,

Of glorious deeds in history?

What’s left for me?

For even now, the modern saints,

Seem dulled when next to Moreian grace.

These delusions of grandeur!

How I wish I’d never read a story.

Never been pieced through,

By poem or the epic view.

Just desperate pain they bring me.

Lobotomize me!

So I may be,

A modern man.

An American man.

A suburb man.

A wasted man.