Crawling 'neath depression's weight
and others' waiting gaze,
I slowly make my weary way
through life's thorn-riddled maze.

My aching limbs have strength no more,
and yearn for rest and balm,
my mind bleeds, splintered, long-since thus,
devoid of needed calm.

My eyes behold Confusion's mist,
which drips into my skull,
and beckons me t'ward suicide,
as beast unto the cull.

Oft,I beg this bloodied rock,
in tears, to let me die,
and thus, to end Confusion's reign
o'er miscreant, wretched life.

By accident or murder foul,
my heart would hasten thither,
by "tragedy" from tragedy,
a living death delivered.