Three travellers
are walking side by side.
Says the first:
"This path is long and weary,
and my soul sickens
with every step.
All it shows us
is misery, disease, corruption and death.
This is the path of the ******!"

Says the second:
"No, my friend, you are wrong!
This path guides
my every golden step.
It draws me further
into the dazzling wonder
of this impossible world
and pulls me forward
with the promise of beautiful new horizons.
This path is truly blessed!"

Says the third:
"There is no path."

The first
and the second
are unmoved, however

For there is no third traveller.

you inhale more smoke
taking more small steps to death
to feel more alive

feeling claustrophobic in isolation,
and like the lone survivor in crowds,
you can't sleep naturally at night,
you need medication to drown out your thoughts that bring sorrowful sounds.

in your ears ring those melodies of realism,
that sing solely of failure and defeat,
these songs written with melancholy chords,
that only seem to loop and repeat.

the process so dehumanizing,
you can't progress through the morbid cycle anymore,
so you press a barrel to the roof of your mouth, as stress neatly lines up and files out the door.

cold metal had never tasted so sweet,
and in these final moments, part of your cement core splits,
rainwater finally leaks in and your thirst is quenched as it fills your lonely heart, the desolate desert ditch.
feeling something real for the first time since who knows when,
only at this time, the moment of your end.

however, in your death your depression becomes recycled,
and now the numbing blanket will be passed to another,
until the day someone strong enough possesses it,
so it can be burned above amber flames, resting in ash along with its true color,
*black.