Stranded on the shore of the off-night mirth,
Dissuaded away by the churn of the city –
Rampage a crawl through the blasphemy.
I wake. Freeze.
Soft breath draws me near,
Nor the thought that makes this dance so sneered yet clear;
Like an Occult, scorned off his path,
I yet again stretch these words on this parch.
Clearer still.
Clearer still.
Silently still I stood waiting against,
Breezy night of the shedding cold;
Against the skins that foil with the fog,
Whiskey, which warms the sanguinary thought.
Apprehension and its chill wear me by,
Blunt in the thought of the warmth;
Mind stood frozen, at such a heat,
Will those get away from me?
The scorn that I held in my hands and cherished;
Made its way through the blinded past.
Thorough on the wade, I descended in the marsh of serenity,
Where this part would start or where it shall end.
But I am in my whiskey house,
Looking at her, as pleasant as she is free.
Would she now bleak, get away from me?
I must not care. For I, alone, must live this sordid stumble.
