Not tonight...

Epiphanies, even sober ones
are only plastic trophies
handed out for winning a race 
that all but busted your legs
rendering you useless for life

reality is haphazard 
you can't fit that mess
into one neat train of thought

it is- 
mute anger turning inward
terrified of it's own might
steering your ship to a mythic port of swirling bitterness 
waiting to experience a full-on apocalypse

wanting to be touched by unhappiness 
trying to find your way out of endless sadness 
as if the last soldier on a battlefield 
struggling with survivor's guilt

standing at the edge of an ocean 
accepting that you are composed not only of all that you possess 
but also of all that you've lost

tonight I have no use for fucking epiphanies
yours
mine 
tonight
or any night.

© Lost