I’m said to be smart but
I don’t feel it’s so;
The fires have died and
The feeblest glow
Is coming now from the
Place where I had been:
The weakest of voices
And frailest of men
The song I’ve been singing
Is old and obscure;
That to which I’m clinging
Has promised no cure —
The lines in the mirror,
My face and my wrists
Are making it clearer
That naught here persists
I call out for help from
The night’s blackened cave;
I long for the hand that
Can soothe or can save
And so overwhelmed and
So panicked am I
Each moment I live
Is just one more
I die
