Of Seasons and Lonely Bridges

He's got a god he doesnt want or need,
a fridge full of bills.
A family left to feed,
and a fifty dollar note soaked in cheap white thrills.

Now its the god of delusion,
or the delusion of god.
But either way he oozes confusion,
and frowns at the path down which he trod.

He was sent by some king,
then forgiven by a jester,
told to hold by this cross thing,
then left here to fester.

But everyday he lives and dies,
and the seasons pass like buzzing flies.

Around a corpse that still breathes,
waiting for a timely end.
This hate for life and love for hate still seethes,
Under a bridge looking for a suicidal friend.

To make its structure feel useful,
in more than space and time,
something never mournful,
yet ever hoping for that lime.

In the bottle of a drink,
that he can always afford.
A liquid to make him stop and think,
that the jump is more than him just bored.

Bored with a life where he just lives and dies,
and the seasons pass like taunting flies.