I sit alone and ponder, <br />the cards life has dealt. <br />The dreams that were dismissed, <br />for the sake of quelling nightmares. <br />A writer I am says I. <br />Who recognises the fact? <br /> <br />With cigarette between my fingers, <br />a hand of solitaire in front of me. <br />The chances of winning, <br />decrease with time. <br />Reluctance is a virtue, <br />which I no longer posses. <br /> <br />My cigarette is almost finished; <br />the hand in front of me has fled. <br />My depression is getting stronger. <br />What will awake my sleeping mind? <br />The sun outside might shine, <br />but the inner light is almost burnt out. <br /> <br />1 June 1981<br /><br />David Harris<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/burnt-out/