A short poem about a man trapped in his own thoughts.
on a blades edge reflecting,
he feel the cold steel caress him
soul peeled from presence now his ghost fill the heavens.
Bereft lady luck so he swigged liquid death,
push needle past flesh to rid evils banish stress.
Demons vanquish men a past hollowed by the pen,
hollow eyed again sparking up the stem
he prophesied at Zen.
liquor burst the walls of conscience
his fall lie in wake of substance to quell judgment
a lost soul roaming hells circumference.
His physical ceased and his motion stopped,
another soul lost to these corrosive blocks.
Condemned to rot in London's melting pot,
where suicide seems the only shelter we've got.
From the abrasion of winter, a storm in the cosmos
enraged in a system we conform to the up most.
Until it breaks us down, the tight rope is cut throat.
Confined to our conscious of social conditioning,
entwined in it's concepts the prospects are sickening
a slave to these four walls, grey skies thickening.