Mountains and whores. Darkness and broken poets. Men as pointless as masturbation and children as defunct as their defunct parents. Circles of pain. Circles of truth. The curls of your hair and the blemishes on your skin that remind you so cruelly that you’re only human, and that despite the hopes and dreams that fill your heart, one day, someday, you’ll be on the slab like the rest of them. When the music plays, and the beer flows, I think of you and lose myself in your beauty, and how such beauty, although tragic and fleeting as it is, makes it all seem worthwhile, somehow. There’s silence, and grudges held for reasons you can no longer remember. There’s isolation, and there are days that turn into years and years that become decades before you even realise what’s going on. You lose, and you lose again. You rise for a while and then time kicks you in the face and robs you of your innocence and youth. What a bitch it is. What a waste. Most look the other way and pretend it’s not happening, but denial is for the weak. It’s a game played by those that deserve to be flushed away with the turds, and as much as I hate you, you don’t deserve that at all. Those mountains, I close my eyes and see them in your mind. They tower above everything yet remain hidden. They fill your pockets like stones and hold you beneath the waves, and yet still you smile like you always do. And yeah that smile, how it shimmers like a golden sun in a field of golden corn. Y’know, those fields of corn I visit each and every night in the hope of holding you in my arms and telling you just what you mean to me. In the stillness that surrounds as twilight falls down, you’re in the breath of the wind, but try as I might, I can never seem to find you.