A smile graciously sits on my face,
out of respect.
Happiness is so overrated.
The sun is flickering as trees fly past it.
Or is this flickering sun just my stability
dwindling away?
The clouds paint the sky a disconcerting grey
and the remains of my stability have become
an iridescent smear of goldenrod,
barely able to stay positioned.
One drink, two drinks, then the drink takes me.
The knife sits on the plate,
complimented by the fork.
His stomach rumbles at the emptiness.
Metal skeletons graze the streets,
dimly lit and statuesque.
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