Pleasure and pain,
Where woeful is nought.

Quick to anger,
A spark and a thought.
Tip the scales with wine and pills,
The stones they throw are complacency’s ills—

Soon the stones will heavy your pockets,
The scales are dry and cracked.
Ripple the water to hide what you lack
Muddy the river, wine bleeding black.

But the river runs slow, and the night is long,
How much weight till the current takes hold?
Breath like a whisper, heavy heart of fools gold
Drowning in each of your stories untold.

Yet as you grow weary,
In that warm, sweet dark -
The hum of a lullaby sings true as a lark
Sweeping away final thought and final spark

Alas,
Pleasure is pain,
And woe is it’s mark