Circa '94

 

In that nicotine-stained room.

by the dim yellow shaded light,

the young man craved the silence

that only comes from an empty bottle,

a silent night,

where his own soundless sighs

no longer deafened him

With the heaviness they hold over him.

 

TV news was discussing a grunge icon

who ended it all with a shotgun.

Such a tragic waste, he though absently,

as his own scattershot

thoughts crashed around internally.

He wanted to empty the contents of his brain

like the scattered photos

that remained from a bad romance,

one where love turned to fear,

and the crack of eggshells

is all that you can hear

every time your feet start to pace.

Where all you are left is the bitter sting of pain,

the taste of blood,

and regret that you chose so wrong,

that you trusted too long,

that you let your heart

get dragged along for too many miles.

 

For love was a battlefield,

said someone in a song,

well, his war was over and done,

this he swore to his room

full of nothing and no-one.

He was just an unknown soldier

in a field of exes.

His race was run. The heartache

he swallowed down, tasted bitter

like the heartless liquor he was craving.

 

If only he knew the story wasn’t yet done.

He, still so young, had so many journeys to go on,

but in that moment of flooding, he gave in.

and his demons were just starting to rise up.

to take him by the hand

and lead him on a merry dance to hell and back.

 

I wish I could speak to him

and tell him that time

is kinder than it seems.

That in some future place,

he will see some happiness,

and he will live his dreams,

and that those soundless sighs

become less deafening over time.