A drunk sits on his throne
His liquor lips let out a moan
“Why, oh why, won’t the past die?
Why won’t I leave me alone?”
He inches towards intoxicating increments,
Icarus's incinerating implement,
pride in his eyes as he flies,
into a sun sinking.
Thinking, “Will the past die?
or must my memory be murdered?”
The bottle at his lips
The finger feeling blade
“I saw a brain cell die.
A beautiful grenade.”
A drunk sits on his throne
His liquor lips let out a moan
“Why, oh why, won’t the past die?
Why won’t I leave me alone?”