At midnight, the meadow lark is quiet
And not a sound issues from my thoughtful lips-
My dreams... Are pallid background; PROLOUGE-
To the days own poison- the drink I sip.
I think of my future, and drink of it
And not a single drop bears me taste-
Though I fight to this day, - To the death!- for hope,
I fear that my thoughts have all gone to waste...
The gears turn in my head, and whirr-
Reminding me: Life is my present hell-
And though no one sits beside me to lose,
These tears of inventions of bitt'rest farewell.
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