Bergschrund

Maybe I'll sit

and write poems

all night, while

drinking and thinking

about how your generation

sold its soul

to a new disease.

And how

I couldn't save any of you

cuz I traded

phat checks for a family

that didn't pay out.

Everyone

is

broken.

All roads lead to

the same dead-end street

I grew up on,

and I feel awful knowing

we feel barely alive

in leftover dreams.

Sometimes

I close my eyes

and see mountains of

polar people

with a pick-axe pathway

to the top.

Summit hounds

sniffing around a sky

that rarely sees them.

Yeti monsters

stealing beer and wine,

feeling fine

while the rest of us

get swallowed

by the bergschrund.