P is for Purgatory

This was never the scenario...

Was never the obvious option...

And I was wrong; so wrong

The somatic has gone, but I live on...

And on, and on, and on, and on

I always thought that the end was the end

No ifs, no buts, no maybes

This wasn't plan A, B or C

Because this is plan P, and P is for Purgatory

And this is my diary, the diary of a dead man

Trapped and alone; alone with the P plan

The first day is the second day...

And the third day and the last day

And the last day is every day

There're no blue skies; no sun or stars bright

Only a midwinter grey of a permanent twilight

And the grey is grizzly, it's murky mizzly

With a glutinous, dense, fog; sometimes it's thinner

And when it's thinner I see the others who are here and there

Shadowy faceless shapes, wandering where?

And then it thickens again and I see naught

That's when I can taste the acidic mizzle

With a corrosive stench so foul I can hear it fizzle

And the drizzle fizzles on my tongue

But I cannot spit; I have to taste the taste

Have to smell the smell of the septic waste

I've been here since D day; death day

Which is today, yesterday and every day

Because every day is the first day and the last day

And today there's an ethereal choir of lost souls weeping

I can hear my weeping; feel my salty tears

And feel my hunger pangs that leave me with a permanent yearning

And the cold's so pervading that I feel a contradictory burning

H might be for Heaven or Hell, but P is for Purgatory

And I'm trapped and alone in this abstract absurdity

All the days of the past have passed

And this day today is the very last

But the last day is also the first day

And the first day is every day

And this is my diary, the diary of a dead man

It was never  A, B or C, it was always the P plan

Each step I take is a step too far

As I tread the mossy mulch of a viscous bog

But I can't stop, never stop, never stand still

Never feel the comfort of warmth, only a churning chill

And so I wander and I wander, in meandering circles?

Each cloying step is a slog

And atop of the bog is the fog

And the fog is what I inhale

And is my permanent death shroud veil

I can hear myself weeping; feel my salty tears

That I've never shed and have shed for years

This was never the scenario...

Never the obvious option...

But I was wrong; so wrong, as I wander nowhere

But nowhere is somewhere

And somewhere is everywhere

And everywhere is here

And there's no escaping from this bewildering absurdity

This is no way station, this place of Purgatory

This is the end or the start and the diary of a dead man

There was no A, B or C, for me it was always the P plan

This is the first day and the second day...

And the third day and the last day

And the last day is every day...

And every day is today

And today I'm in Purgatory; P is for Purgatory