The wheel.

The wine colours your eyes like the blood-stained piece of pine

that you used to batter and beat your dreams.

It hurts as you breath and swallow the deceit

with which you coat every day of your life.

You blame and you curse the people of the earth as if they lived just to bring you down,

when it’s really you that’s smiling while hauling and loading

your body into the back of the hearse.

So, as you shuffle and mutter, forgive the others,

because they’re not here to see how you feel.

Swallow your pride and stop the denial

because it’s you whose really behind the wheel.