Thank you kindly, Sam. I was rather happy with the "scales" line, which happened to echo the "bird" line in the previous verse quite by accident. (By the way, if I were to ever read that poem aloud somewhere, I would raise my fist in the air at "weapon" and give the middle finger at the "bird" word, and throughout the rest of the poem.)

P.S. I don't think Cohen would mind. He'd probably take it as the greatest of compliments (secretly.. and then sue you for every sweet sheckel you are worth! Hahaha ::sigh:: ..Jews.)


"Roulette Weal"


Tonight seems like the perfect night
To quit while I'm ahead
But, I'm not ready

Though, I wouldn't say I'm winning;

I'm on fire

If I thought I could
I'd stop the globe from spinning;
Dive my finger in that shallow,
Muted blue
If, but, to prove
I'm not on fire

Under pressure
It won't budge
To split this glacier
I'll need warmth
There was no sun to melt the plastic
Only artificial light
Only the pallor of my face

They make it out to be a game
As if you're choosing where to land
Without having to make a choice
But, when you're losing
It is still your fault

And, everyone just drifts away;
Dissappointed
Uninvested
In their own desires, tumbling
From your palm
To fall in all the wrong pockets

They ought to paint the continents
All red
The lifeless sea
All black
And, God is green

The one color we cannot see
Nothing could make more sense than that

I wouldn't play this game
If everything
Were blurs of faint, grey hues
And, getting used
Were not my main intention
Is it making sense, yet?

There's a light
In every shade

For, red does cast a roseate, bright sheen upon my face

But, black does then reflect my visage
Deep within the void
Caliginous
And, underjoyed

When the glow of luck has simply
Lost my touch

And, I can see the loss, as such



If guns are made for shooting, then skulls are made to crack.
You’ve never seen a better Faig than with a bullet in his back.