On a day of frisbee nets stood a sober man.
What could I make of this? What an unfamiliar sight to see.
Eyes full of bright blue scrutiny,
doing what he can.
With lips that reverberate the same ol' tales as if they're anew.
If only a father wasn't predispositioned in his pills and pinot-grigio,
What would become of him?
He would rather die than live with his endless pit of guilt.
He knows what he's done and he cannot escape.
He feels nothing anymore.
Sobriety means nothing to a man who falls on his ass and scribbles marker on his children's burning carcasses.
He is his own broken child, and yet, only he is to blame for his fate.
O, beautiful hate.
The devil ruled his shoulders when he murdered his angel with heroin.
And alas, upon a throne of molten trash, he sits.
Satisfied.
