"Quiet... Quiet... Listen up!"
"Quiet, quiet, gather round... silence please."
"Raise your drinks and join me!"
“Another round, all around, **** it!”
“A toast for all forgotten souls, we once called friends.”
"Raise your glasses half born souls.
Your hearts are sunken anvils,
brocading non-stop static,
with smashed lime rinds at the core.
You who are isolated by falling avalanches of pulverized melting cubes,
contained by a lonely, stained, cocktail glass.
We all come here to escape our pain,
to numb it, and rearrange it,
to tell stories, to those who will listen.
Stories, about how unfair life is.
Stories about how one time, we almost found true love.
To hover alone in a numb state of remorse and baffled shock,
To be stuck, unable to move, held prisoner by that mean *******
Fear.
To present to others a daily expression that declares helplessness, confusion, and shock.
And on rare good days, reveal glimpses of a haggard beauty, long since expired.
This space is our space.
A room of sorrow, lead tears and the living dead.
A collection of the remaining shells of veterans dismembered by personal wars,
Now mockingly Inhabited by those, who couldn’t survive them,
but still, somehow failed to die.
They failed to die,
still, I am certain,
they wanted to die with all their heart.
So in their memory, let's lift a glass, and our broken spirits,
to celebrate and remember those we have lost unnecessarily
"To the living dead!"
"To the living dead!"
"Three cheers for the living dead!"
"The living dead!"
"The living dead!"
"The living dead!"
"May they rest in peace!"
And now finally:
Bow your heads for one last moment of silence,
before one final round,
of the failure all around.
.Amen!