Awoke today to nothingness, and no sense of direction
I looked upon the looking-glass which offered no reflection
Without much aim, I stumbled forth, devoid of my complexion
And set my way in this darkened day, begun in such rejection.
Aimlessly, I persevered, despite my lack of vision
Offered up my hopelessness as an object for derision
Stepped forth into my wandering, so filled with indecision
But felt somehow, that even now, this was the best decision.
Sightless and in full confusion, one foot before another
I wandered forth upon my course, each turn unlike the other
I cried out for a helping hand, I cried out for a brother
With breathless yelp, I screamed, “please help” but my words were quickly smothered.
I turned about and struggled home, afraid and full defeated
And not one time upon the path, ever was I greeted
Yet even so in time I’d come to find myself full seated
In my home, all alone, blind but undefeated.
Let the night unfold as may;
I am sleepless and nocturnal
a carpet of stars lights the way
across blank pages of my journal
Though little light is cast, and sure
No verse forthcoming pours from me
for all the emptiness I endure
One inspired word would set me free
Yet these droplets fall in un-metered rhyme
for me to unravel, on bended knee
I am as useless as soliloquy to a mime
Or autumn leaves to a winter tree
So loose my bonds and set me free
No more my pen to scribe
No vacuous lines of poetry
There’s simply nothing left inside.
Whiskey sour. The most appropriately named
of all libations. It dances circles around “whiskey
neat,” because I’ve never been neat about my
drinking, but I’ve often been sour.
“If you’re going to be scribbling in that journal,
howse about you take that someplace else,”
barks Rudy, my corner bartender. I’ve been
a steady since before Rudy came to work
here, but there truly is no sanctuary for the poet.
“Kiss my flattened arse, you bastard, and pour me
another,” I reply without even looking up. He laughs,
flips me the finger, and grabs a near empty bottle
of Maker’s Mark. “You ever published any of that
shit?” he rejoins as he pours. “Listen,” says I, “stick to your
areas of expertise, which I believe is football (soccer)
and whores, and leave the writing to me. We’ve
both problem enough with our own curses.”
“You ever write about me..the bar?” he persists.
“Not until this very moment.” I concede and with
that I slam my notebook shut with profound defeat.
Footsteps echo across silent floors
Lightly I stumble against bolted doors
I can no longer see for the daylight blinds
Thoughts become jumbled; confused is the mind
Beneath my eyelids, a white pain sears
Unleashing regrets, a torrent of fears
So many years wasted and so few to live
I lie down exhausted, no strength to forgive
My bed sheets are covered in sweat and regret
My slumber eludes me, a payment for debts
I toss and I turn and shiver with cold
The reckoning comes for we who grow old
I wait for an ending, too slow to come
My life has been naught but a cowardly run
My reason is slipping; my hope is diminished
The sun is now setting, my long days are finished
Chandelier stars slowly appear
Darkness descends, as time disappears
Moment by moment, and breath by breath
Slowly appears the sweet face of Death.