Black Dog

I am in a pub
with Churchill on the wall.

This place was his manor,
and this manna my fall.

It seems that as much as I try,
his Black Dog still haunts me -
teenage angst recalled,
and “Keep Buggering On”,
despite the best of intentions -
does nothing,
helps nothing,
changes nothing at all.

The only difference from decades gone by
is that this time,
this year,
I’m not fearful to die.

The shakes and the sweats,
and the blood and the tears,
have taken their toll.

Time to decide.

Die, or the dice.
Succumb or re-roll.