The tides that bind a fallen city,
Swirls of vision, animosity...
Lost beneath a silvered glass,
Watch and wait as hours pass.
You find yourself, now surreal,
Surrounded by clocks with a ticking squeal.
You walk to the kitchen, a hand you find,
A platter in which to place your mind.
The microwave dings, the toaster rings,
From the oven you pull, intestinal strings.
You stab with the knife, it ends in your head,
Place your mind into a toasted bread...
You walk to the car, you breathe in deep,
You look into your pocket; the bottle you keep.
You take a long swig, it's a magical drive,
Your soul falls asleep while you await to arrive.
Silence, broken silence,
Emptiness filled with eyes and ears,
Rainbows haunt and tear the skies,
Falling rain like bitter tears...
Broken and unspoken,
Suddenly you are bowed!
Your throat explodes with shards of glass,
It ends the life to which you vowed...
Each gurgle of blood that is caught on your lips,
The sputum you cough is flecked with red.
Suddenly you wish you never drank,
For you died alone in bed.
"Relief comes not in a bottle..."
-Chen Yuan Wen, 19th February 2012