December 11, 2012

• Drink

  Pour my future in the bottle

  to replace its wine that now runs as blood.

  I was told flowers would sprout,

  but the colors never came

  from the brown of mud.

  Oblivious Springs sauntered by joyless years,

  oblivion courtesy of bittersweet beers.

  For the strength to raise one heavy chin,

  I spent instead raising ten bottles of gin.

  My beautiful flowers, my promised colors never came,

  so I sleep or wait and play a drinking game.

  How blurry and funny can I paint the air

  before my condemned dream no longer cares

  • 10:55 pm
  • 4 Comments