The Horrors

I feel cold and old
And  sick and wed
And  bedded and
Left for dead;
Worn  and  sold
Down  the river,
Can't take any
More  of this slick fiddle
Holed-up  in the frost
Have  lost it all
Nothing  to toast
I hear my  last post
Sound  - it echoes,
How   it echoes
In this cave of rage
This  foray into
Sage  stupidity
This  horror of faded
Lucidity
This  picture of jaded
Rigidity
It is time to let go
Time  to let go
Release the echo
And   let it drift
Away  on  the wind until I hear
No  sound.  Then  -
Cleaned, unwound,  I can
Begin anew.  O  God
O  God  then
Let my   colour be blue.

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