At war with myself

The sorrow of the morning,

With the coming of the dawn,

The scent of seasons change,

Silver glisten on the lawn,

The waking cries of angels,

As they wheel in carefree flight,

The golden sun is rising,

Burns the shadows of the night,

But for him there is no beauty,

In creation and this life,

To live another day,

Is to cut him with a knife,

The tears he weeps in solitude,

His life’s transparent stream,

To wash away his sins, in life,

As they would in dream,

But he finds no solace,

In the chorus of the day,

And why that might be so,

Finds it impossible to say,

To describe the screaming anguish,

Broken hearted, torn in two,

He cannot bare to face it,

The evil that men do,

A body washed in fire and flame,

Every nerve alight,

A mind submerged in pains deep sea,

A body tied so tight,

A suffocating overload,

The nightmare of the day,

Demoralised and abject,

For he knows no other way,

Assailed, each sense assaulted,

He cannot give reply,

He cannot answer question,

He cannot answer why,

Fragmented mind confuses him,

In purgatory woke,

Images kaleidoscope,

Acidic bath to soak,

He is lost and scared now,

As he is at every morn,

Pity those who fear it most,

The breaking of the dawn,

Undeserved and impotent,

A life so full with dread,

At war with everything he fears,

The war inside his head.

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