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Apr 2021
Once, I was a man standing
in an airport, holding her -
a meadow of sweet, a hand
that browsed my secret self,
an incandescent eye that found
a gasp in the gap. And then I wasn't -
stripped of my companion,
I succumbed to whisky's scalpel,
lonely's pollution.
Now, fringing a sorrowful noon shush,
I watch an orange crossbeam throb
of crawling sun die by my foot;
considering this, I meditate in this glass,
pushing whisky into myself with serious intent,
pinned down by choices that are not mine;
the days slouch forward, despite themselves.
Evan Stephens
Written by
Evan Stephens  44/M/DC
(44/M/DC)   
88
     Jamadhi Verse and ju
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