Every morning I wake up to puddles at my feet,
Storm clouds swamping me and making it impossible to breathe.
The downpour only grows more as the days progress,
A dying glow fading distant in my empty chest.
It's hard to find the storm's eye when it seems to have died,
The tar and ashes from a bonfire burn lowly outside.
But me and my life, I suppose we are just fine...
The rising tide drowning us in it's icy cold brine.
Perhaps one day, it will all come to an abrupt end.
Until that day, I'll drown myself with an ocean of gin.
