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.