Liquid Courage

An empty bottle.
A fermenting room.
The stagnant mind.
The soul in its tomb.

The world is plastic
I am wretched from my grave
Suffering is fantastic
That woman the Maeve

I lurch over from my bed and the weight of my body upon itself heaves out to draw a breath from the stale air. I would look up to say, "God save me". But there is only the horrid silence to contest. The filth under my feet feels soft. Preying on my indolence. I cannot quell the scourge within me. Only feed it to keep it tame. What awful vicissitudes await on the other side of my door? To greet me like the maw of a fox crushing a rabbits skull. I do not hate the predatorial instincts of the world. It is just and fair. Such is the terror of being devoured by it. Looking into its eyes. Those soulless voids. It does not feel. It does not discriminate. It does not exist. For if I could discern a tangible form from the illusory one, then whatever I am could manifest. But in my chest beats woe and laments this mortal toil. The fleshly form. I stand. My room a cell. With a window and a door. But I am not bound and prostrated by chain or shackle. Only the confines of these walls. I dare not touch the doorknob. For the only thing that is real, is the vestige standing before it. Reaching out. Not for an answer. Not for a hand. For absence. The cosmos are painted as a flourishing soiree of actuality. A deity of existence. But when we lift our brow to it neath the umbral pall of night, most of what we see is the quietus of time. The indigence of the abyss. In the streets I am stalked by collapse. Shadowed by entropy. And pursued by misfortune. The forlorn whimper of the gales through the concrete moor fiendishly writes the twists and turns of this labyrinthine hellscape. Today is a holy day. The masses held on consecrated grounds. But the grounds are not theirs. Their lives are not theirs. For if a life is truly one's own, then it would be liberated from others.... and responsibility, empathy, and growth. But what do we become? But husks of children? Corpses of innocence parading about through a menagerie of hellions. Should I open this door? Should I make the inquiry as to why I am here? When the answer lurks with lank jaws seething behind me... savoring the effluvium of dread secreted from my mind. Saliva rolling across its coarse tongue and over its black gums. Thats humid pants brush the back of my neck in every waking moment I subsist. There is no answer. No question. No reason. Only the redolent ambience of a divinely sinister comedy.