Forced to Live

When in the lover's pain,
There is nowhere to go
nowhere to be
nothing to say
nothing to free
your forlorn soul from suffering.

It's drifting in space with claustrophobia
or motion sickness from the earth's spin.
It's freezing at 100 degrees Fahrenheit
or burning at the other end.
It's death by wanting,
Yet forced to live each moment more.
No search can end the suffering
nor find the right in every sore.

If at least it were the noble thing,
If at least I sensed some glory;
If at least I were the martyr king
In some heroic story.
But it's none of these,
Not ev'n at least.
In simplest terms it's boring.
The plot is worth ignoring,
For sits the man restoring
Nothing by his sitting
And nothing by his spinning
of the harshest words--
the ones meant for his ridding
of the pain.
Not even rain
Can drown his sickness whole
And leave him sleep--that peaceful role
of happy men, of kings extolled.
The suffered sits--nothing consoled.