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Promises of tomorrow are the hammering nights of today.
Blankly I stare into the void,
hints of dawn sleepily emerge.
Wars waged before my eyes.
When the darkness dissipates,
I will still be without any answers.
I can't save you...
I'm too late...
I wade drearily through the guilt and the shame
in a myopic acceptance that there is not atonement.
Sleeplessness makes the morning so stark,
so frail, so callous.
Still I wait.
The day star crawls to its peak
and all but sets me aflame.
One foot in front of the other
and I dutifully wait.
You aren't coming.
I know that now.
Still I wait - for meaning.
Meaning (that) was stolen.
And abandoned.
The sun never sets
over this failure.
And in that endless noon
no one can forgive me.
What should I have said?
The answers never come.
The answers refuse to come.
Lapsing too are those promises.
When the darkness dissipates,
I will still be without any answers.
I can't save you...
I'm too late...