In the  sculptors dawn when the sun breaks the mountains into rays
and my head swings like a pendulum cut loose
from its bearings of the night before

I am burdened  by the slow tongue and bruised buds
of the binged night drowning.
home is  solace.

What is it that brings pigs of desire
to straddle boundaries of destruction, laughing
at spirits.

that let lose will wander loose in a melee of like minded
pub crawlers, unable to draw from brink
of  no return

Creativity is an excuse
done, wobbling and ill–mouthed ranting
rambling unsteady.

What is it?
that brings us on our knees
in supplication for more.

Trapped in a cage that goes round and round
unable to change course
we stay within its liquidating comfort
until destroyed.
Author Notes

Many have been to this desolate place and many have returned broken. Is there a way to break free?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.