Pity and self-loathing, those non-identical twins
found lurking near the gates of hell
with heartache prowling there as well
following him while still out front,
this is where his last song begins.
Sighing of some former love still teases him,
her breathing felt while lying close.
Now his living grief and dying hopes
while faltering every few steps,
hold no easily learned release for him.
Looks back on many sunset rendezvous
when faces were not afraid of him,
they had not tallied yet his sins;
kneeling before these memories
wondering which of the bridges he would use.
Called by sirens to a place where sleep comes easily,
no harpies tearing out soulful pages,
where the wine of fear no longer ages,
where even blindness would not matter
as no one cares who is looking or what they might see.
The promise, easily believed, is one of finally resting.
Again, the usual bickering has begun
between the sword and the chrysanthemum.
He tires and weakens more easily now
from pressing weight of failures of endless testing.
Pulled by duty, pushed back by adversaries,
kneels again in bitter shame.
The stench of his defeat remains,
no miracle left on his miracle tree,
no honor in the weight his shadow carries.