That first morning swig washes
away the stain on the inside;
the parade of hearses and the
lovers lost to the carnival of life.
A few more swallows and
memory becomes nebulous.
Cumulus clouds form in
the brain, and the thoughts
float by, all fluffy, like cotton candy,
and fun-house safe.
In this twisted mirror
I see the tired eyes of
a clown who's not funny anymore;
just a ragged costume and a
jagged soul that is hungry for
sleep and dreams, a moments reprieve.