what is the implosion of hope of living a good life
when the expectation was that i'd be rotted by now
in an ideal world, next to my brother
under a nice patch of grass and deep in the ground
but he sits in a box on a very high shelf
and my oldest brother takes him down once a year
weeping countrywide like the drunks we are
tears spilling and he finishes his beer

what's left of our brother returned to his birds eye view
August is coming so fast i don't know what to do
but revert to pretending youre still out there somewhere we cannot find
because that's easier to swallow than saying goodbye
for the thousandth time

i'm so alone