Tempest
He barely scrapes it home, as he jerks into his driveway. He’s won the battle with his cherished station wagon. Choking the life out of the steering wheel; stomping on his accelerator and brake pedals. His car survives the turmoil. This battle is over.
He stumbles out of his ride like a wounded animal. The whiskey on his breath implies that he’s the one been standing on the shelf.
The night’s as dark as his days. His skies are always grey. Yet he lives every average man’s dream. His fellow men look up and envy him with his money, class and riches. Still, rich is he in emptiness, as he fumbles into his house of shadows. Shadows are his company in this lonely mansion.
He sits at his table with another bottle. Whiskey his tranquilizer, the storm is approaching.
For his internal conflict consumes him, as these porcelain walls echo his misery. He throws the bottle at the wall, demanding the wailing to be silent. Ripping his valuables; tossing furniture.
But the voices, keep bouncing off the walls of his mind. He slumps into his couch. Lost, tired and weak.
Ultimately, his sole desire is to find peace.
