Sunday, August 18, 2013

A Last Drink to Die

 

The flower opens up its delicate petals. Only to be met wit conceit and deceit (This world’s special seat). Perhaps the innocence has to be shovelled in a grave filled by dirt – for it to really know what it was truly worth?

Walked a hundred miles and a hundred more – looking for a tavern where I may lose my hope for sure. To sit with a numbing drink in my hand and listen to the jester sing about the day’s frivolity no end. To make merry and then fight lose and get bruised. A last drink before they throw me onto the streets for sure?

Picked up from falling stupor - asleep - by the golden dew struck sunlight (too bright). A toothless grinning pauper my friend for the day to dine. Sly conversation and makes merry with the morning flavour of wine. And I devilishly dervish around his words with my heart; opened pedestal by pedestal – giving a match for the sure shot sunshine.

No sin in repeating and replenishing the favour. The maidens refill the cup a thousand times. Many a company I have seen and passed by. But perhaps with you my old friend; A last drink before I die.

Since when does the moth question the flame; or the bee run past the flower on the vase? Since when does the innkeeper refuse the customer for a drink to dismiss his ignorant deeds? I have not known the world’s ways now too sure to start. I have not seen those who will ever give up their drink to the dying souls choosing to depart? (all done wilfully)

Maybe to be taken as a pessimist in search of god to scoff at his creation and will. Perhaps a romantic losing his poignant charm and selfless love to thrill (his beloved). Perhaps the fool who has undertaken experience as a chore (and now wishes for nevermore). Could be yourself in the guise of a body of a man/woman – who doesn’t really know why they are born to die here any more lives anymore.

So I wish for a last drink before I die. Tonight is the only one given to me; so let me drink be merry and say my last goodbye. Tomorrow shall never come with the overlooking plague; war and lovelorn heart all conjuring up some my way. Let me pray humble and kneel on broken faltered knees – look to the northern star, close my eyes and spread divine love through my sweet lips. Press the cup tender, make love and let it go so I may be buried perhaps in an unnamed grave. Somewhere on the periphery of this night tavern where the weary stop to reminisce their lost-ness. Maybe on the edges of a greyed sombre silent night. Giving up one’s life. For the love for the sublime in sight.

Peace.

 

 

 

 

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