One-Hundred Ninety-Two

His own hospital room,
a place to sleep and s**t
and to purge out the gloom,
to get away from it.

Burden so great eating
away at his spirit,
a doctor's he's meeting,
some treatment, so near it

The men wander the halls
muttering heavy things,
Icarus had the balls
to fashion waxen wings

Gravity is his friend
seven stories above,
feeling no way to mend,
indifferent force of love

A dream of tumbling down
like John Mellencamp's walls
co-mingling with the ground
like all the waterfalls

Empty father-to-be,
just a head of thoughts
minus tranquility,
the bullshit to be wrought.

So he sits, wasting time
waiting for the doctor,
another day so behind,
a test he must proctor.

What's that matter at all
with such a f**k'd-up mind,
humanity's downfall
is Nature being kind.