No snow, no sterile white.
an annoying winter set under dead branches
and around old bones that ache and pop and limit.
And this hardest verse, hanging over my mind,
lurking for weeks stopping thought,
causing a whirl of illusion and delusion.
Stoking old flames that chill a heart life-tortured.
A vile and a bottle, both can make you numb to the pain.
A pill and a glass.
The rest is up to you to chose.
Either way you are empty.
One makes you numb to the world,
the other to yourself.
One gives you death inside , the other shows your death outside.
And which will you chose;
to dry up from the inside like most of gen x
and settle for the hole inside and the futility on the outside.
Or like those poets of old – to wet your whistle
and use the power of the black hole inside
to storm the castles of this miserable setpiece game
in which everyone is unaware they already lost.
But chose you must …
This is your life ... you neither win nor you lose...
you just have to chose between the pills and the booze!
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