Oh, for me, today I honestly wanted you,
to desperately start smoking yet again,
where etching a heavy jagged line in reverence,
across a half-empty pack of stale menthols,
I traced bluntly my acute rage and sadness.
Examining a cold match firmly pressed to gel,
between two indented raw serpents of evil,
flushing tired blood with pulsating dances,
until those colored lights in my mind fade a little,
and the drawn window shows its new catchy preview.
Your main game works over the pinnacle of our tables,
rigidly parked and entirely famished beneath food and sport,
frying arms to scarred elbows in a rich foosball fondue,
under a fatted culture worshiping losses far above victories,
selling cheap the promising cream during their last few years,
out of much more beyond a force continually dictated by habit,
lacking reasoning and belief inside than what you’ve always been.
Scrupulously depressed and containing no anticipated fix,
busy wondering what is even the point and if there seriously was,
how would it ever realistically come about as nearly ageless,
driving holes onward through the pure sand of necessary channels,
from the deepest of possible creature residuals in the South,
atop Hampton houses stretching in lockstep along desolate beaches,
ultimately not feeling very confident, despite their fierce objections.
Sharwrong's Song 