Night

Cold, broken, lonely, here I lie
on the small bed of my mistakes.
Fierce, howling wind blows through my veins,
Sharpening my cruel pains and aches.
I see here no light reflected.
My small darken’d room does not care
What long scars I have afflicted
With sick, poisonous summer air.
Wounds will go deep, and deeper still,
Angry shadows of an age past.
They have the tools to break my will
And shatter all my resolve last.
But quickly, deep breaths do I take
To calm me from my blackest fears
Few struggles of man ever make
A protest which falls on deaf ears.
These memories will pass and fade,
In time, I will refuse to weep.
I look at things I have now made
And retire to a fitful sleep.

Maybe? I don't know... This poetry thing is all well and good, but it seems as though it is never quite written as I want it...