Frosted Windows
Remain the sole resistance.
An aging engine,
An empty tank.
Possessing an exterior badly stripped by,
The bitter air of speeding years
Droplets of water slide down the glass.
Reflecting
On the persistently, taking the wrong turn.
And Yes!
Overlooking the consequences, each time
In the knowledge that this route of addiction is only
Destined to crash!
Crashed! On numerous occasions.
Survival, hanging on
Only through the efforts of those flashing blue lights,
Accompanied by the call of so-called – life prolongers
e.g.: psychiatrists, psychologists, counsellors, doctors, family,
Oneself.
Oneself…
Clinging determination and a speck of motivation.
Again, confronts
The same crossroad
The left,
Paths the way to the enticing
Externals and the
Artificialness it brings
The right,
Indicates the
Internals
Resting deep within
And ought to be explored
Disequilibrium,
Urges spontaneous combustion as a means of closure
The ticking of the indicator,
Flashes instances of continuing with
An aging engine
An empty tank
Added with the gears jammed at 5
And a complete loss of steering,
To only, be faced with
The urgency of those flashing blue lights
Or, what some consider worse
Everlasting Darkness
There is no escapism,
Especially with the self-knowledge that
‘This route of addiction is only destined to crash!’
The right must be explored,
The right turn can only be
Willed by Oneself,
By exploring the
Internal route.
