This weekend dies as it begins.
The sinking, sickening feeling
That seeps into the carpet
Of the lounge
Is nothing more or less than manufactured.
Yet I can close that factory;
I can fill the space that the 'filler' fills
Every day.
I can steer the boat clear
Of the berg.
But the grape and grain call louder than reason,
And regret stands up:
Its face bare-faced
Amid the clouds of prepared anesthesia.
This weekend ends.
My resolve to end the dying
Will die, in time, again.
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 8:09 AM UTC
This weekend dies as it begins.
The sinking, sickening feeling
That seeps into the carpet
Of the lounge
Is nothing more or less than manufactured.
Yet I can close that factory;
I can fill the space that the 'filler' fills
Every day.
I can steer the boat clear
Of the berg.
But the grape and grain call louder than reason,
And regret stands up:
Its face bare-faced
Amid the clouds of prepared anesthesia.
This weekend ends.
My resolve to end the dying
Will die, in time, again.