There are times when my hands are unable
to give up, holding a glass a crystal coffer
carrying within a precious lymph of ruby,
one that glorified Dionysus enrapturing mortals
praying for relief, seeking refuge from reality,
maybe even ecstasy. And though
stories of the myth are imbued with joy
lavishing festivals notions of behavioural freedom,
truth is my hands act against my will.
As I let them guide the days and night I fall
slowly into the abysses of a contorted mind
resuscitating ghosts from the past luring
me to believe nothing has changed,
I am not stronger than I was then
nor was I ever weaker than I am now
and as the liquid slithers down my throat
the smiles that move the passions of my peers
feel like sharp blades piercing my spirit,
self-inflicted pain compelling me to listen
to the voices I silenced long ago, once again
until dawn, when sobriety renders me hope.
[Featured painting: The Nightmare by Johann Heinrich Füssli, 1781]