Popping pills to find serenity
but pills can’t erase the fact that he’s alone
In a place that’s not his home
A place where his energy is no longer welcome
Trying to feel better, feel good
but he’s not. Feeling far less wonderful than me
or you, frozen in the lonely cold.
Just another sucker working in
the specter factory wondering, “Oh
what will I do?”, before grabbing another bottle.
So blind, so blind is he to his righteous
anger that wakes him each day. A fury
that Hell hath no reason to combat nor
will try. Yet rum & an eighth dull
what can not be contained, what will
only be kept at bay for a terminable time.
But seconds, minutes & hours mean nothing
when his head in the clouds.
“Oh, I hope someone will help him before he loses control”
You may think, as you continue down your own lonely cold road with a peacoat.