The runs like blood through veins
So it’s running pretty dry tonight
The bottle’s empty, the page
Is empty
And the heart isn’t beating
Like it should
The drum in the deep
Has ceased to boom
And in the dim-lit room
The brain in the chair is wired
Too tight on the edge of a knife
Just waiting for a chance to stumble
It wastes time struggling
To piece a mirror of broken reflections
Together
The deed is done and the luck has run out
Empty-handed at the close of day
With its dimming of lights
The day is not a happy day
For the man in his chair
Can no longer hear life around him
The room is covered in shards of him
And he’s dry as a husk
In the middle of the Sahara.
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