The Mires
His fragile hands clench at dirt and bone,
Searching for more than a promise to carry on
He's never felt so completely conquered,
So far removed from those spaces he trusted
And he's given up so many years,
Done away with too much time to the lies

With broken arms and brittle legs, he tries to lift his head to stand
The trenches deep, and at his feet, the fragments of his best-laid plans
He's a man, martyred by unthinking hands
Undone by the methodless devastation

Just one step and he'd be free
But his legs are twisted backwards at the knees
A false strength that he maintains
He knows that what he's lost is more than what he stands to gain

So here he stands, to make a mire of this wasteland
An end he's chosen
A shadow of his former man
But he can't see past this defeat
To realise it's all behind him
That he's stronger than his misery

Your hope is the hole that will swallow the apathy that you follow

A frail end by the dagger, wrought ideals for feelings
What's the meaning of failure?
Am I the latter?
Regret is just a fever,
God knows how you got the blood in your well

Your regrets are not your revival
This defeat is not your final tragedy

A frail end by the dagger, wrought ideals for feelings
What's the meaning of failure?
Am I the latter?
Regret is just a fever,
God knows how you got the blood in your well

Your regrets are not your revival
This defeat is not your final