Enticing transparency of glass, crafted
sand shaping figure, wide cavity craving
to be filled allowing, oxidation melding
to capture oxygen emanate aromas,
inebriating flavours held by opaque
long stems impeding my consideration, I want
I do not, an automated old recurring gesture
creeping slowly from within, whispering
no harm will come from flowing, burgundy
liquid gold in the abyssal hole where stormy
tides hide ghostly presence, of memories
left behind. Fooling mind in thinking I
am only slightly, braking the rule being
responsible by starting, lightly. It is only
eleven after all and with a drop it’s twelve
before I know. A more appropriate time
to indulge, caressing bottles faithful
lovers pouring to please me, while
viciously they hurt me slithering inside.
I select the self-inflicted idea, that I can deal
I do not, have a problem if I cut, down
that’s just because I want to, not because
I have to. And I am more fun, I can relate
Or at least pretend I do without, feeling
like a fish out of water I can laugh disregarding,
the harm that has been done, to me
of which I am weary. Believe me it is scary.
And as my lips turn purple despite a soothing
taste I don’t like, myself in this state I rather,
run to my refuge where I do. Love humanity
yet know so well, no one will ever care, more
for me than myself. Miss that little girl,
always smiling counting stories, now
shading behind glasses to keep every other
being at a distance. Unable to flout
the Universe’s tendency unlike humans,
to prefer me when I am sober. They don’t
know, how could they, believing they are
worried when they claim I need it, a social
life yet they ignore, how overly populated
is my soul, encompassing them all.
Last drops and I linger regretting
lost hours drowned in wine.
[Featured painting: The Day After by Edvard Munch, 1895]