There's a man who's wondering
If he'll make it to next week.
His telephone is ringing.
Two years on the wagon,
His life was back on track,
But now he's caved,
A terminal slave
To the horizontal rain
That streaks through the recesses
Of his saturated brain.
A cold wind curls off the inside of his skull
As he stares at the ceiling,
Senses reeling,
Lost all feeling...
Just another twist of another cap,
And it's a step closer to the end of being trapped
In the prison of a life dripped on
By the slow trickle of a gutter clogged
With filthy remnants
Of hopes and dreams.
A life polluted by the weight of the world.
A man once vibrant
With a sense of self-worth
With a sense of humor
With a sense of freedom.
A man with a vision
Of a place
Where he would place
His puzzle piece.
But this puzzle got left out in the rain
And pieces missing
Got soaked and frayed.
So he cracks another
To drown the pain.
What drives a person to this point?
Divorced and ditched,
And divorced from the life of the past.
Linked to addiction
Like a fucking curse.
Handcuffed to a slowly sinking car.
Sinking.
Sinking for years.
There he is on the floor.
His telephone stopped ringing.