Drag Me

Grace is a foreign concept to one such as I.      
A stagnant Alcohol soaked, mud blooded brick of a man.      
If you were to bring gold back from Faerie  
the leaden sum would characterize,      
generally,      
my self.      
Trudging through grey days, humping a sodden moral load,      
I make no attempt to extricate my soul from mindless drudgery.      
Fearing change, hoping for nothing,      
and trying      
Not      
Very      
Much.      
I slug my way through an      
aimless      
hopeless,      
weary      
husk of an existence.      
Dried like a mummified cat dredged from a bog
in some stygian, forgotten land     
my consciousness cries for pallid oblivion.      
Ghostlike, I wend my way      
haltingly      
through a meaningless  
oft ignored  
set of wretched daily chores    
for no conceivable reason.      
And as I slog slowly through my aimless tasks      
I think nothing of no one.      
I believe that to quit this miserable march      
would be the epitome of pointlessness.      
One that would, having no discernible effect,      
splatter unevenly across the face  
of a shapeless, bored reality.      
Utterly devoid of meaning,      
my last symbolic act  
would be to flutter down and burn  
on the last guttering lump of coal  
in a dying god's forge      
And as the last spark faded      
I would be there still      
besotted and grimy      
left to once again begin dragging the dessicated corpse  
of my dream of the end.