Second, the conscious impotence of rage
     At human folly, and the laceration
     Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.
And last, the rending pain of re-enactment
     Of all that you have done, and been; the shame
     Of motives late revealed, and the awareness
Of things ill done and done to others’ harm
     Which once you took for exercise of virtue.
     Then fools’ approval stings, and honour stains.

Behind his eyes flashed the morning's sequence
      Another headache, perfunctory prayer
      Stilted talk, granola store-bought, rushing to depart
Nothing awful really, no cause to complain
      Though he did, if barely - an ordinary day
      No great pain and no utter bliss
Minutes unfolding into hours and on into days
      Fully experiencing neither that nor this
      Love or hate, yes or no, living or dead