You act as your own judge and jury
prosecuting your existence
condemning your life
to third-rate sex and lack of romance
believing the self-told lie that a change in scenery
will attest to a change of life
or some strange alteration of reality
You act as your own executioner
choosing the mediocrity of a dull life
and the stasis of the soul
terrified of risk now, in unsubtle connotation
terrified of yourself
choosing a life of being told
What you cannot wear
What you cannot say
What you cannot think
What you cannot feel
for fear of upsetting some
metaphorical apple cart
thrusting forward to the dimness
of a wasted existence
of weak chins and beady eyes
and wet-cardboard passion
but once you were truly alive
Some far distant day you will regret
with that last breath
accepting the humdrum over all else
the sluggish refutation of vitality and anima
the cursedness of boredom
the long dark abscence of the soul