The world is teetering in this
so called state of balance, and I
myself am off kilter, the gravity
of my center fast-approaching implosion.
The last ounce of whiskey has
evaporated from a bottle—thirty days
it has been yet I still feel its fire lingering in
my bowels commanding a direction.
I take a long draw from a cigarette,
telling myself it's the last, though I know
in short time I will feel the momentum of
its presence gripping at my heart
with the echo of ages, forcing every
last pint of blood racing
through narrowing veins. And these I use
as a substitute for rage—coercing
the body into feeling how I would have it.
To recall the act of life and how
no matter what choices are made I
cannot persuade my spirit to deviate.
It is a fool's errand attempting to dominate
a world spinning off its axis, and these words
will soon dissipate—an antithesis tumbling
down the ladder one rung at a time.
0 comments:
Post a Comment