The Empty Orange Bottle

Call it Zoloft. Call it Soma. It's all still manufactured happiness in a bottle.

Between the vision and the reality
        Where serendipity crouches
                In the shadows,
                        Blowing blessings as though kisses
                        Through the prison bars encircling
                        The earthly inhabitants of Mondays,
A cleavage in the human condition widens with accelerating years.

                      And fevers run high as separation of worlds begins,
                    Inducing delusions sweet enough to guide stumbling
                                  Minds around the cynic’s trap.

Hope, hope, sweet saccharine hope:
        Take one tablet by mouth once daily
        To keep away the tears that Tuesdays bring,
                  To knock you to the floor, to force you to your knees
                  In a near-orgasmic bliss,
                              Stretching dreams to the brink so that this waking life
                              Might be a mere intermission in the nighttime vision
                              Our existence is prescribed to be.