In the department of Social Security
With my form for the funeral fund
Filled in using the pen and ink of death
In this department, the air is made of stale crystals
They fit each applicant like a suit of misfortune
The trunk road of alcoholism ends here
The graffiti of an angry society roughens up its theatre
The last stop on the way to the morgue
The eyes of Death are present here
The last line of help before the cruelties of winter take you
Before you become a social outcast living in the street
A department scourged to a minimum parsity
By the bones of the depressed and the lonely
A huddled woman sits here submerged in a sea of worry
An alcoholic pisses against the wall outside
The receptionists are barricaded in for their own safety
Behind the walls with the glass windows
We all hate to set foot in here
This government department border crossing for unconverted pagans
It’s here you must convert or end up alone
Fighting against depression and the elements of your wrecked psyche
This is a shrine to the sins of Adam and Eve
Here the sacred snakes can be heard hissing
There is not the enigma of comforting scripture
There are only lifeboats of paper money under the decaying flesh
When the days begin to seem like years
And the years turn into the days of eternity
Can’t this be left behind?
Like a station left behind on a journey
Brilliant. I spent some time in such facilities, rattling the cages behind which the staff were secured.
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Thanks, I hope things are better for you now.
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