Breathing With Borrowed Lungs

They say the weak shall fall by the wayside

Well, I'm way sighed-out this week

The witching hour's come and gone

and I'm fighting off oppressive sleep

It's not the dreams I can't abide

In fact, I welcome them like the ships the tide

It's my waking mind I'm stuck inside

and from myself I cannot hide

The dreams they offer sweet reprieve

Through which I almost let myself believe

That the joy I feel in slumber vast

is truly what will come to pass...

But when my eyes open anew

I must reconcile once again,

like some war-wounded veteran,

whose legs and arms he wakes to scratch

Though they've long since ceased to be attached

And I see with suffocating sight

and gasp for air in the morning light

I FEEL LIKE I'M BREATHING WITH MAKESHIFT LUNGS

That fail to keep time with my haphazard heart

No better than a broken metronome,

off-beat from the start

Yes, the weak shall fall by the wayside,

and I'm way sighed-out this week

There's no rest for the wishful

Nothing to inherit for the meek

The winter solstice has left me cold,

breath freezes in the southern air

Heart and thoughts run through the ringer

And I'm so much worse for wear

Because the stars aren't shining and the Man in the Moon

casts an accusatory stare

And the angel on my shoulder whispers three simple words:

"YOU...WEREN'T...THERE

And these words-like-daggers steal my sleep - I wake

with baited breath from borrowed lungs

And the angels in my head stand poised

To sing my sins with trumpet-tongues

"Forgive me... please, forgive me,"

Please hear my wayside plight

There's no rest for the remorseful

And I'm way sighed-out tonight.