not only the elixir, its anesthetizing allure, but also its vessel
in which he can see reflected, his hands, his mouth
though not his eyes; they reveal too much:
his last human touch lambs on blood red fields of war his mother gasping her last breath his stillborn son
in this parley his eyes cannot belie he hears screaming voices in an empty, stone quiet room
the glass, then, will win; ‘tis an unfair balance; its perfect symmetry, its solemn silence the almighty alchemy it holds
against him--his ghosts, his hands, his mouth, all ready to concede defeat
inspired by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec’s painting, Le Buveur, (The Drinker) in which we see a man, hands folded on a table, chin resting on them, eyes gazing at a glass of bourbon--link to painting here: https://fr.pinterest.com/pin/353251164494684327/