Let today represent the subtlety that cataclysm fails to acknowledge
Something whispers in my ear

And

Despite all the evidence, things will be just fine
And I still don’t believe it, but I wouldn’t trade that voice
For anything less than the chance to start again

Much as I may will it
I can’t be my own apocalypse

And I hate the self-focus that I indulge
In denials of proof that the pleasure self-destruction offers
Grows, as its wake expands and I decrease

It’s so much easier when the onus lies in the opposite corner
But here in the black
Our protagonist stands with a knife and a bottle
And doesn’t know the words he hears are his own

Past to future tense, the present left in a shroud of fear
Holding the key to the box it’s in, unable to find the will
To reopen it, for fear of what’s grown from those sickly seeds

I know it’s too late
But I’ve noticed a recent absence of coherence
This should be put to rest before it gets out of hand
Hope now that I’ve said it, I can leave it alone