Crimson

This bar is a place of worship, stilted on runaway souls, loose change and day-to-day pain. We congregate amongst liquid idols, awaiting promise of distraction from mediocrity. Our sores are new and old, some bandaged by a mask we enlist for hours but masquerade like permanence. We expertly perform the muse, the concubine and the hero, chancing at best a microscopic thrill of belonging in this script and at this habitat. We meet at a glimpse. It repeats and we never trade secrets. The pupil returns to the pew and anticipates communion, praying the next sip of wine will grant peace and clarity. This place is a big fat bore, but we still continue to fuck around. "This place is a prison" by Postal Service says it all.