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From the outset it is set.
There is always another debt.
The mind's gone numb.
Again I start to succumb.

A weird déjà vu, I've been black-and-blue.
I can't stay aloof, lest I appear uncouth.

In an endeavour to deny the rage,
the utopia is my worst phobia.
Showing false fervour,
the war has been waged:
to figure out the tempting enigma.

Behind bars I have been,
while unchained and free,
yet not daring to flee.
Our lives are too brief.
Beyond my belief—why does he take no prisoners?
He calls coroners, but they find no scars, and he says, ‘That's bizarre....’

Can it be that he is only imagined?
No, it can't be!
I have to query what seems perceptibly genuine.
But I can see, this morbid frenzy's driving me crazy!

Once more, should I step towards the light?

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