No daisy chains

No memories of daisies
or daisy chains for the
lunatic lying on her back
in the stiff frosted grass
on a cold winter's night;

hearing distant sounds
of carol-singers - brave
souls perhaps who have
travelled the rocky path to
the Celestial City, now
celebrating their arrival
in song -

but this lunatic is no
Christiana, she is a sinner
clutching a wine bottle,
feeling her lungs, her head
about to explode...

A coward with mud-stained
clothes and blood on her
hands and she's cold, so
cold.

There's no Wicket Gate or
House Beautiful but a home
of sorts for now, so she slip-
slides back across the icy
grass, only to find the key
doesn't fit the lock, though
she tries over and over until
at last the door opens -

But of course there's no one
there - only the lunatic in an
empty hall, fumbling for a
light switch, tripping over a
half-read book on the floor.

Still holding the wine bottle
she picks up the book and
hurls it across the room -
to hell with John Bunyan...

Rummaging through her CDs
she finds what she's looking
for, turns up the volume, rolls
herself a joint, and sinking into
the armchair, drains the last drop
of wine, allowing the music to
obliterate the voices in her head.

She knows the words to the first
track off by heart, so as always,
sings along wishing she could
remember childhood games and
daisy chains,

closes her eyes and wonders -
will she ever see Him again on
the Dark Side of the Moon?