A man sits by himself in the garden,
filling his lungs with nervous draughts of air.
He sees in tranquility his own foil,
as the beauty around him reminds him
of the darkness that hides inside his soul.
He came to escape.  He came to forget.
He came so that he might not feel the weight
of his life, of his soul, of his lost faith,
even if only for a short moment.
He hides from himself in small distractions:
his garden, his poetry, and his friends.
But nothing ever works for very long,
and in the end he lies awake at night,
alone again.  He has only himself,
himself to blame or make excuses for,
to answer to or seek forgiveness from.
For not even God in heaven damns him
half as much as the depths of his own heart.
Oh, will he find in death, (the death he dreads),
a salvation he thinks that he has lost?