And four pegs down;
I don’t feel the burn down my throat.
I don’t hear the wineglass clinking,
When kept on the table,
I don’t hear the fading in and fading out sound of a flashing train,
The bars hitting the rails.
I see a dark blaze
And a vibrant murk,
To gobble me up.
I don’t feel my heartbeats,
I see my old friend,
And I listen to her carefully.
She says, “If it doesn’t destroy you, it’s not love”.
I feel numb,
And it augments my thirst.
The more I drink,
Is the more I feel droughty and arid,
And it makes me crave for people
Who don’t exist,
And it makes me a believer in divinity,
And it makes me apologize for being an atheist dope.
It makes me weep for no reason,
It makes me write great poetry,
And when I fall short of words,
I throw the wineglass from Germany,
At a great velocity
And it hits the floor.
The sound it produces,
Uhmm, I do not know the onomatopoeia.
I see myself tied up to a tree,
And tribals honing and stoning
Their archaic machetes,
Waiting for a palatable dinner.
But I cackle mockingly
Flaunting my putrefied beef,
And I see them flaying me.
It hurts. It really does.
And I become a believer again and pray.
The following morn,
When I awake,
I see I am in my bed
And my limbs fastened with belts,
And shock instruments all around.
And I see myself in a baggy uniform,
The crackbrains wear in asylums,
And tapes and clips all around like it’s fashionable jewellery.
My life’s deplorable.
And I laugh at my plight.
This is the 5th time I am told
I am paranoic,
Or maybe, the ninth.
I wake to die,
And sleep to cry.
I live and travel in my sleep.
Darling’s dead now.
She loved me,
And it destroyed her.
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