The Human Condition

The bittersweet smell of cheap perfume

Lingers on in the now empty room;

And rumpled linen reduced to rags

Barely covers a mattress that sags.

The air holds echoes of a passion

That is more of mockery’s ration;

Each tiredly feigned and worn out moan

Left you feeling only more alone.

Vacant, hollow, and listless dead eyes

That no longer bother to tell lies

Were a mirror far better than all

The cracked glass peeling from the bare wall.

Welcome to the human condition

Where your part requires no audition;

And the closest thing you can call friend

Is death by a quick and painless end.