kill myself yet still pursue, this life that yields me nothing.    With words I break my heart for you, and still I tell you nothing.    I do not deserve to live for I am too afraid.    If I were asked to choose between this and death, I might just choose the grave.    Cover graces, my ears and eyes.    How lucky might I be, for through my disease, my blindness and rage it is only now I see.    Fight through sight.    Too wide behind.    You forced off comfort and glory rises, but it knows that it is only a temporary fantasy that will soon give way to sight.   Give way to anguish.    Give way to life.    Hold still and you just might catch all three.    Oh glory rises, how lucky can you be?