I needed to drink but was nowhere to go,
So drank on my own, among shadows of gloom,
That slowly, with stealth, had entered my room,
Whispering so deadly, “it’s best not to know.”

Those memories and visions, they did me no good,
Just dragged up the mud of too many years,
That soon overflowed with fears and old tears,
Which lingered like ghosts in a haunted dark wood.

Buried I seemed, beneath my own life,
Locked in a crypt all covered in grime, 
Another path upward, unable to climb,
So distractedly, hesitant, picked up the knife,

That lay on the desk, a sad souvenir,
Of love won and lost, in African lands,
The towns, the plains, the forests and sands,
Her voice, in the night, still sings in my ear.

But then, why speed on the inevitable end,
Of me, one and all, and so too, the world,
So, laid it back down, my fingers, uncurled,
On top of the letter I never can send.