What shall I have known but dust?
No kind of fear; no kind of love.
When nothing drives and nothing cuts
there’s nothing left reward enough.
When every labor naught begets,
how welcome is the disconnect.
Humanity, unworthy guest:
you have shown me nothing yet.
You have shown me nothing yet.
This sinking feeling holds me up.
Will I be ever good enough?
With hatred left my only crutch,
will I do ever good enough?
Where should I have gone but home –
where all of us are most alone –
to be a stranger, wholly owned
by whom I’m not; to be unknown?
In wilderness I better lived,
and aptly widowed, heart amiss,
the love that made me sovereign;
for death is all I’ve wooed her with.
Death is all I’ve wooed her with.
Should you remember, remember me thus:
“I don’t believe I did enough.”
But lament for nothing; life is just.
I would not have lived enough.
