your days are filled with nothing but Pain
and you're dead inside - so numb - no hope of being kissed awake
from this Land of Emptiness,  dark and dreary
where the air is so cold and chills your bones
and it's all just an absolute Nightmare

except there are no Scary Monsters;
just the foreboding voice of The End -
its silence screams your Name
and haunts you as you trudge
along the Frozen Shores of your Heart

there is no Oxygen here - no way for you to breathe
you're perpetually choking and you can't start a Fire -
can't warm your numbed hands - and there is Nobody
out There to ease the aches that this Solitude brings -
It sweeps over the Tundras you've come to call "Home"

There was a saint at the bar last night
He wore a battered shirt
And had uneven stubble
He cradled his beers
Peeling the labels off out of boredom
If you looked closely you could see the early signs of a receding hair line
And bags under his eyes
All he had said in three days
Was "beer" and "thanks"
He didn't look like a saint
And no one went home with him that night
And he ate 50 aspirin
And he wasn't at the bar the next day
Or the next
But he was a saint