When the glow of god
failed me, I prevailed
upon the amber elixir,
ye olde feeling-fixer,
oh, the whisky dream…
but, it, too,
left me dry,
like empty
oaken barrels,
wherein,
we lament
an echoing burial
and toss our wreaths
at the feet
of the others,
queued up
to have a drink
and/or
a final meal.
I think I was cheated
by this lack of stigmata,
seeping,
bloody,
weeping.
Holes made
by rusty nails,
leaked away my faith
and replaced it
with an odd,
aged,
doubly-wilted bouquet
of malted fumes
that sting the eye
and placate
the self-hate,
long enough to
survive another day.
© CGT, 2020.
Fortunately, I don’t have the attention span to be an alcoholic.
