Whiskey House

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.

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.