I used to think that it mattered to me,
The thoughts, the smells, the tastes, the life of it.
Memories seem to haunt me from it all.
It is all nothing but grey ash, beastly.
It was never as I had intended.
I was supposed to be a success, see.
Failure was not to be my sole branding.
Here, where I exist, there’s no future sea.
Ahead, there is only this bag of shit
That intends to cover me when I fall.
Now, there are only the things I carry.
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