I wait listlessly for someone not there
Hoping you'll feel me
Hoping you'll care.
Alone I lie awake and stare
And dream and hope for something so rare
That it never can be, and cannot be seen, even by me, within my own dreams
So sleep has ceased coming, caught between the extremes
of drowning in paracosms for sanity
or locked in cold lonely reality
Denial is pleasant, the truth like a dagger
Why's the truth so hard, then, to be contented or to stagger?
The quest for something corporeal seems to transcend all.
But perhaps in the end it's what makes us all fall.