Oh, apathy, devoid of all appeal
What could you be that's worse than angst and grime?
What do you bring? What will I see? What for?

For what is the fulfillment one might feel?
If not joy decomposing over time
Until the time comes that it means no more?

And like the demons that I ought to let
Away, but then, who could have made me whole?
I leave the underground and lift my face

Then reach out of my misery to get
A grasp of passion, fortune of my soul
Which now lies as a memory of old days