Tip a Drink in Your Honour... SS Title Contender Verse
Tip a Drink in Your Honour
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Spinal chord rattles bypassing the weight of the cold,
A slumpt body amidst the shadows, embossed and written in bold.
An abrupt sentence, one with the wall, just another brick,
His thoughts are somewhat clean, but his mind is plain sick.
Reflections of fiction echo across the rippling puddles,
The grinding friction of his glass leaves his eyes befuddled.
Sparks muffled, blanketed by a soft bead of sweat,
His head rolls on its pivot, his mind begins to fret.
"Death" croaks his stressed clef, a blessing of air arrives,
His energy seemingly faded, it escapes in a series of sighs.
Home is a dive, from where he once intended to strive,
Now sitting in this dank corner of hell, he's proud to be alive.
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Pushing jagged fingernails through course black hair,
Occasionally catching, pulling, yet he finds it fair.
His punishment to another, comes around once more to him,
A slim limb pads the clothed earth, can't find it, for the light's dim.
"WHERE IS IT?" he screams in a tired manner,
One more cog to turn, yet he lacks the spanner.
Not much of a planner, but here we find him methodical,
Despite his medical condition, he remains ideological.
Obsessions drape over his inhibitions, his mindless seductions,
A day of self-destruction and physical disruption.
But what more could he ask? Sprawled in an alley, clutching a hip flask,
God's task was to live well, "what can I say, it's just another day passed"
Hints seep through the scattered shattered glass pieces,
Unintentional leases and combined mechanical greases.
The disgusting layer between him and the cold concrete,
Camoflaged into it he lies, back to the wall in an unatural seat.
However, amongst this depressing scene of fleeting liberty,
Something falls out of place, he is classed somewhat differently.
The glass and festering alcohol meets an abrupt end,
Sketching a picture of nature, life, and humanly trends.
Blood, freezing in the winter's twilight, corrupting the night,
His masterpiece of inhumanly blight, plaguing his sight.
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After smashing the bottle over her head, it all became so clear,
However, the clear soon became fear, a clear fear, yet so dear.
His wife lays in the dark alleyway with him, her elegant toes,
Her womanly features, still twitching from his manly blows.
A withered rose grown from the tarmac roads, faulted by none,
Admired by some, yet inherently done, she lacked a humanly 'fun'.
Arms spazming, tearing flesh cross through the fresh layer of life,
One thing left to turn to, no matter if his strife has continued through his wife.
A knife in one hand, his flask in the other, shaking, shivering,
Quivering, brain patterns? Simmering, then with a resounding ring...
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Pouring the drink to the floor, a tip in her honour,
Pulling the blade across his neck in a pain ridden horror.
- Deviate
