I‘ve misplaced my heart

To the deceased.

Where to go on nights so
cold.
When to go, I do not know,
for I live while you grow old.
Why go when I can stay here
and make a toast
to the day that draws near.
I’ll be the one to make the most
out o’ misery.
Your tears like glass
for my brewery,
I’ll drink from it today, but it won’t be the last.
For I have an unquenchable
thirst
that burrows deep within my mind while I ramble.
This must be my curse
for being born conscious
when I could’ve settled for silence.
Schrödinger has killed the curious
and left with common sense.