Am I out in limbo, less a man than a mannequin?
Am I out on a limb, burning daylight pining patiently?
A claim's made that intent is a backhanded compliament
But I'm taking each step like a fresh faced endeavor.
"Hope springs eternal"
These are pointless words when they are engraved on a headstone.
But whould I recognize a corpse if I was one?
(Does it take one to know one?)
We can't see our graves as we're in them.