empty needles dance on the dusty floor,
stranded dragons hope for a rescue vessel.
isolated islands burn down, no one notices,
everybody avoids the clouds of black smoke.
stumbling about the empty streets,
searching for a place to call home,
there’s none. only four impersonal deaf walls,
a couch whereupon so many have sat, slept, wept.
empty bottles and spilled cocaine,
a sea that will not be crossed;
trapped, the bars are sturdy, grey, monotonous.
once more, seeking for a way out,
only to realize,
there’s none.
one more drink poured,
in vain hoping something will change.
endless nights, cold mornings,
back to where it all began,
former walls to keep me imprisoned,
it’s alright.
embraces belonging to the past become the future,
lips never tasted turn into the reality that’s to come.
drinking to forget;
every sip brings forth more recollections
from a past that was burned inside metal spoons and plastic bottle caps.
sauntering through the streets of wasted adulthood,
burning down buildings, raising new foundations,
it all remains the same,
and the dance continues, as a cloud of wasted blow
rises,
and within it I see all the ghosts that will never leave the premises
of the damned apartment.
false promises ringing in my head,
no amount of alcohol can silence the whispering ghosts;
I try, I pass out. come morning,
it’s the same old. no change.
bourbon for breakfast, lunch, dinner.
the old routine, nothing will ever change.
one more empty bottle, broken glass all over the dirty floor,
farewell, time to bring the glass-pipe out of early retirement.