I handle my liquor as well — as a well striving to keep afloat.
In the shadows the nights stretch long, and I come across a girl
with a captivating smile; her body, however, bore the marks of
countless encounters, of each man who sunk in her, a much deeper
borehole. Yet, she adorns herself with a cross, perhaps a silent
testament for both parties to start off by saying their own grace.
I’m seemingly fighting inner demons; as a silent war etched upon
my face — all the while chasing after every idea to extend this
human race. Yet, it is a cruel irony that the most profound revelations
often emerge only after, we have drowned ourselves in the depths
of unspoken answers in our cups.
And so, the clash of poor ideas and the taste of liquor lingers on;
as the drinks act as an unequal guide, to the morning — where in
the aftermath, the bitter collision of misguided notions and the
haunting essence of spirits endures.
