The chill has begun to set in.
We are the world we were told would suck us down.
We are the ever-dying refuse at the bottom of the heap.
They never told us how cold it would be.
They never told us because they couldn't,
Because we had to find out for ourselves,
Had to discover the numbness,
Had to feel the loss of feeling,
Had to succumb to despair before we could begin to cry for help,
Before we would find out that we could only help ourselves.
We were told too much and too little,
Because they were just as ill-prepared as we were.
They knew, and they did not tell us because they did not understand.
And when we found out, we did not tell them because we do not understand.
We cannot fathom this darkness fathoms deep -
Deep beyond measure.
The longing goes on forever.
Knowledge and grief are too deep a cave
Within this pale sigh of existence.
Solider on without feeling, without seeing,
Armed with a gun with only one bullet - knowledge
To carry until the time is right.
Bad poetry against the chill,
And endless words to fill the endless hole.
Resigned to infinities that end beyond our sight
Which terminate in collapse,
And dashed drunken hopes.