It is Scorpio season
in every possible sense,
For there is no safe, solid,
middle ground to stand upon
That hasn't been wet-soaked
with its flood and blood,
That transforms the gentle earth
to obfuscating mud.

But then, perhaps, it is actually clay,
taking shape under a vision in silver,
For the full moon in Taurus also glides
across these charged, ******, Scorpio skies.

Honesty comes at a price -
But so did the countless rounds
of glasses, boxes, bottles, and cans
that we bought
while searching for a substitute.
We may be in one hell of a mess now
But at least we'll never
have to drink that much again
just to speak our hearts.

Way up in the mountains,
Pumped up with endorphins,
At such elevation,
After such respiration,
I collapse with elation,
By my exquisite companion,
Digging into a sandwich
with such determination,
And every last sorrow
drains out of me,
if only for now.
I heave a long, tender,
whispered prayer:
Bliss and only Bliss.
This and only This.

It is a moment
so delicate
that eventually
a single heavy breath
and slice of light
will crack...
But for now
it is a hushed dawn
so breakable.

My cheeks are scorched
by the fire in my blood
and words begin
to well within
But my courage is scorched
by another fire
that's dammed the well,
and I can't begin.

Are there secrets at the bottom
of this bottle here to savor?
And are they more commensurate
to its volume, or its flavor?
Could ascetic tongues here loosen
and become more libertine?
And could cold feet here defrost,
performing dances unforeseen?
Oh, I think that we should try it -
drink me underneath the table,
For I have no use for secrets,
but I'll trade mine if I'm able.

Can't you see?
That this evening's drama
is all just tangled language
made swollen by repetitive prodding,
and that none of this is real?
I am too tired to argue,
Too burnt-out to share,
Too triggered to touch you,
And too blasé to care.