Happiness

The skeletons are clawing at each other's bones.
The rats are at the sugar and sex.
The oak trees are nervously eyeing their homes.
The gamblers are losing their bets.

The leaders are making excuses for greed.
The poets are moaning and ranting.
Black pudding's the meal of choice as we bleed.
There aren't any coins in the fountain.

And even the cats feel homeless,
and the autumn leaves feel like tears,
and the old days feel good, even though they were rubbish,
as we spend our nights counting our fears.

So how can you tell me it will all be okay
when all of the omens are bad,
when those who can help are helping themselves,
when all of the thinkers have thought, and gone mad?

I wish you were right with the tale that you're weaving.
I want a placebo, or god, to believe in.
I wish lies were true, and the truth were all lies,
that the sorrows were sighs,
and the flies, butterflies.
I wish I could see with a fake set of eyes,
for the eyes that I see with are grieving;
and I wish I could cope,
that I had more than hope,
that the rock near the top of this mountain I'm heaving
will soon reach its peak,
but it won't,
and I'm weak,
and I'm too tired to sleep
so I'll sing,
and I'll drink to the sky
and I'll stop asking why
and keep on self-deceiving.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.