The 44 is where I live,
and were I just might die,
as every dream
I ever dreamt
has turned
to joke.
Strong as hammer,
weak as glass,
steel in lap,
bottle in hand,
relief,
it is in sight.
What is the point,
that points to nowhere,
but the same
as many times before?
A life is long,
that to nowhere
leads,
but to this trail of tears,
and endless pain,
around each bend,
endlessly,
as I cry out
to no ear hearing.
