"3 Sheets Up"
3 fingers of 3 amigos.
3 days late.
3 hours sleep.
Keeled over.
3 sheets to the wind.
Waves were flat.
Winds kicked up and just like that,
I was three sheets to the wind.
Hanging over the rail,
splash some water on my face.
Glaring into pictures,
a smattering of people and children,
the intersection of all those who share his DNA, but will never hear him sing,
peer his ring,
fear his sting,
clear his wing,
pier this dream.
Staring at the splattering of pots and pans that no longer defined him,
once filled to the brim simmering.
Enticements of Fire, drizzle, sizzle & spice.
Back then he was still just a Ronin of 3 houses.
All import matters and things are one of these 3,
lost,
tossed,
or cost more than their worth be.
As if to upend his intend with this trend of 3 upon thee,
He sees that the seas are flat again.
3 sheets fall, the light goes out.
Dark calls until a white moon ball crawls out above all.
Adrift again faced with only his marked route against the pale, flickering light up from the shiny flat black beneath.
He descends...
old rare wins,
a mountain of sins,
3 hours of sleep
And 3 small jars of 3 amigos.
Floating flat in the dark, deep,
keeling over in the head,
curling into the sheets of an unmade bed,
3 sheets to the wind.
By: R Craig David Copyright 2026