Weeknights in short sleeve shirts.
My stool edges further from the bar
as my legs kick for their last breath, I'm strangling it.

Creep out in the heat, half a ghost,
and the spirits I pass are so other-worldly
that if I tried to hold a seance, they wouldn't hear me.

They dress like they never left the showing.
Someone brushed the still-growing hair from their cold ears,
closed their mouth, opened their eyes, set the features;
and now for a night on the town!

So I head home, half ghoul.
I drag my dead legs into my now half-haunted room.
I regret 13 years out of 26,
and in my eulogy I was only partly good,
and whatever half the amount of many is,
by only that many was I missed.

And now I'm three feet under.
I'm cold beneath tangled, partial covers.
My closet door is cracked, and there appears an unearthly glow:
I fear it's another half lost soul!

But she isn't there.
She moved on to a better afterlife,
leaving me in bars on weeknights,
and my dying wish will be that she's only half happy.
We're only strays.
Last edited by Martyr's Prayer at Apr 8, 2013,