The rigor of staying sane is
hard to steady, especially
when the rain falls harder
for those minds not ready.

–It’s possible, you could eat lead.
That dark remark, a whisper in a
whiskey filled head. –It’s that simple.
The suggestion, direct and stark,

waits for a storm, a fatal flood.
A lone candle stands melting white
mixed with the mud, a fucking mess,
as the dam breaks. Cannot handle

the confusion, as I’m swept down
the deluge of deep delusion.