Last night, as I lay muddled, in my whiskey-soaked slumber, A wraith-like mist appeared; blue-black and musty scented in tattered rags dipped in dust.
My burning sleep-clenched eyes could not squeeze the scepter gone. Her orbs, two onyx stones set above translucent cheeks; her mouth, a gaping maw spewing ruby-red flames. She floated on an icy breeze scented with blood and bitters.
“Last call!” she hissed,
pouring me two bony fingers of amber absolution, judgment oozing from her snake-coiled tongue. I listened to the familiar tinkle of liquefied reasoning cascading across ice-cubed rebuttals.
Fear terrorized me, stroking my belly with cold hands. My gut curveting far and high like smoke-flecked stallions raking the black sky with their steel-sparked shoes.
the earth reached up with vise-gripped soiled fingers grasping my naked ankles and pulled down my saturated bones; my drunken soul laid out and set beneath lichen-laced granite.
Jagged stone-edged knives etched my name and this, the year of my drunken descent.