All great writers are drunkards—
It’s a prerequisite, perhaps,
That too be profound
One must also be inebriated—
This glass and aluminum key
Unlocking chests of insight.
Thoughts flow evenly, quickly—
A bottle tilted to parched lips
Wearing worn pathways
Across yellowed pages.
Words that speak of fight
Words that speak of rest—
Saying nothing at all.
Waking to begin anew—
Waiting to find answers
Underneath sea spun foam,
Crashing into shattered shores
Hoping to find forlorn messages
Sealed safely in bottles.
Swirling stories fill full mouths,
Spilling over the oceans side—
But diluted behind a liquid veil
Pain cannot dissolve in truth—
There is never an escape.
It will always be a fantasy.