The Hypocrite

Promises of tomorrow are the hammering nights of today.
 Blankly I stare into the void,
 hints of dawn sleepily emerge.
 Wars waged before my eyes.
 When the darkness dissipates,
 I will still be without any answers.
 I can't save you...
 I'm too late...
 I wade drearily through the guilt and the shame
 in a myopic acceptance that there is not atonement.
 Sleeplessness makes the morning so stark,
 so frail, so callous.
 Still I wait.
 The day star crawls to its peak
 and all but sets me aflame.
 One foot in front of the other
 and I dutifully wait.
 You aren't coming.
 I know that now.
 Still I wait - for meaning.
 Meaning (that) was stolen.
 And abandoned.
 The sun never sets
 over this failure.
 And in that endless noon
 no one can forgive me.
 What should I have said?
 The answers never come.
 The answers refuse to come.
 Lapsing too are those promises.
 When the darkness dissipates,
 I will still be without any answers.
 I can't save you...
 I'm too late...