Masquerade even in death.
A constant stream of well wishing’s of death
empty thoughts are all they have left.
They speak of your greatness your sorrow and pain
of the drink that you sunk to keep yourself sane.
Few of us know the truth in that bottle
the reason your skin is blackened with mottle.
Biting my tongue I turn away
fearsome of what it is I might say.
There’s a story to have, a story to tell,
a story that damns you to the pits of hell.
Karen Hayward ©2016