The words I read on a page speak to me the way a bottle of hard liquor speaks to him on lonely Friday
Screaming, taunting, laughing.
They sing me to sleep with clever, indie rhymes.
Each morning I wake with coffee already in hand;
The yellow ring on my kitchen table darkens with every sip.
People dance in the streets as I shuffle past.
How could anyone be so stupid?
They know it will all end sooner than they think.
But their music plays on, completely inaudible to me.
It’s a waiting game now.
Life is just one big, cliché waiting game.
He puts the bottle to his lips;
the last drop hits his tongue.
Who knew poison could taste so sweet,
the aroma of death so delicious.
A funeral for a forgotten man
is certainly a short one.
Intermittent crowds full of regret
shed tears and lay flowers on the grave
of a stranger.
Their music plays on.