The Bittersweet Weight of Tomorrow (the Ides of the Ides of March)

is love such a mystery novel?
are curtains waiting to be drawn?
yes, I know I'm alone with my shovel
seeing visions and shouting at God

if the first step of creating beauty
is to seek out a muse for my pen
there's an innocence echoing through me
that I can't seem to capture again

every breath that I take is a blessing
but it carries a death in its wake
now the radio has me undressing
with much more than the airwaves at stake

I can wander aloof to my failure
I can walk in the light of a smile
but when faced with the weight of the days here
I'm aware that it might take a while

Tell me simple solutions to follow
walk me into the house where awaits
all the detailed hope of tomorrow
and the answer I can't seem to trace

she is only a blip on the radar
but it's louder than anything else
now I flee this disease to Decatur
the sickness is myself