I sit alone and ponder,
the cards life has dealt.
The dreams that were dismissed,
for the sake of quelling nightmares.
A writer I am says I.
Who recognises the fact?
With cigarette between my fingers,
a hand of solitaire in front of me.
The chances of winning,
decrease with time.
Reluctance is a virtue,
which I no longer posses.
My cigarette is almost finished;
the hand in front of me has fled.
My depression is getting stronger.
What will awake my sleeping mind?
The sun outside might shine,
but the inner light is almost burnt out.
1 June 1981
David Harris
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/burnt-out/
