the drunkard crawls from an infinite sea of sadness,
their screams echo
into an enormous black sky,
upon finding their sun
which was once an incessant ***** red,
now a cold mass of midnight blue,
abandoning its worshipper
to revel in darkness,
to freeze from a deathly chill of loneliness,
to melt from the nights' stinging raindrops of reality.
but the drunkards,
and only the drunkards,
are secretly admitted
into the hollow asylum of the traitorous mind,
where some imagined eerie light
bathes the shadows,
where they feel the solitude enveloping their bodies
with an alien warmth,
where the raindrops intoxicate their insides
like thick, sugary syrup;
a place where they
willingly drug themselves
into an ignorant stupor,
painting translucent
dreams of yesterday
upon the undersides of their eyelids,
and seeing them
as the art of the future.
solely possessing the key
to the invisible shackles
that chain them
to equally invisible walls,
they lie back in relief,
upon silken feather dust pillows,
comforted by a styrofoam fortress,
while blissfully wasting away
in their drunken
narcotic haven.