There is pressure. It has few exits And fewer friends You drink a lot Like it matters; as The sky rolls and rolls Away in blasts of blues and Reds; There are voices, and occasionally, love. But it will be ripped From you by beasts. Raped and desecrated Before your eyes Until you grope through The night, moaning about God and revenge, and how You feel, but you don't. You only squeeze forward Searching for childhood - - Calling to ghosts.