For Tove Lo and Charles Bukowski (and all those climbing Desolation Peak)
 
Lost in the maze,
Drifting through a purple haze,
Harried by an alcoholic daze,
Stumbling through an arduous phase,
Where bleary eyed shots,
Become empty bottles,
And empty bottles become empty years,
Full of empty fears,
That grip the soul,
Shots piercing it full of holes,
Attaining empty goals,
Where dreams become nightmares,
Where nightmares become tempests,
Raging through our world,
Tearing up our lives, unfurled,
Playing with that silver bullet,
Russian roulette, finger on the trigger,
Wond'ring if one should pull it,
Standing there, hand shaking,
Kneeling there, body quaking,
Kneeling there, before the alter,
Collapsing there, as one fails and falters,
Drifting into never never land,
Thinking it is forever land,
Nothing grand about it,
Hard to turn around without it,
Wanting to stand and shout it,
"Leave me devil!"
"Leave me!" in all that revel,
Hoping to see the light again,
Knowing deep down one must fight again,
To simply stand, perhaps with some Samaritans hand,
Helping one up, guiding one through the maze,
Urging one through the purple haze,
If luck has it, nights become days,
If fortune gives it,
We find safe passage,
Through this fluid phase,
Where darkness envelopes one's soul,
Where lightning strikes and burns a hole,
In one's very mind, in one's hapless life,
Where night visions become nightmares, become rife,
With demons pulling to and fro,
Where triggers are pulled, fast and slow,
Where life becomes a blur,
Where thought becomes a slur,
Where awake is plagued by incessant burrs,
Where one walks, but is never sure,
When the silver bullet will be fired,
When one will fall for ever, beaten and tired,
Into that empty, endless pit,
Into that putrid, stinking shit,
Where shots were poured on a bar,
Where bottles were emptied near and far,
Life becomes so unclear,
Sober is nothing less than pain and fear,
With the Reaper knocking on the door,
With empty thoughts beside us,
On that filthy floor.
What more? Is there, can there be more?
Perhaps a light reflecting,
On some distant, far off shore,
Where a bottle washes up,
With a message,
That a coconut is to be eaten,
Not used as a Daiquiri cup,
But once we've been shot to death,
Once we lie in a broken heap,
So terribly drunk and so beaten,
Russian roulette becomes the daily game,
Bottles become bullets that mark the same,
So in that stead, the Reaper sits beside one,
Holding yet another loaded gun,
Full of shots, so many more, so often lots,
Losing one in that confusing maze,
Leading one into that purple haze,
Enslaving one in that endless drinking phase,
Where life becomes darkness,
Where darkness steals away the light,
Where light is shaded by incessant shadows,
Where dark shadows keep one shackled,
Imprisoned by that alcoholic plight.