That Bottle of Wine.

Seventeen seasons passed.

I only needed two to realise it was too late.

Not yet, I told myself.

Some days were too bright, some too dull.

Some too busy, while some ah, forget it just not right.

a seven in the morning and a five in the night

weren’t they all the same

controlled and tame

just not yet, no time for that bottle of wine

as the grainy sands of time trickled through my fingers

winds turned, eclipses appeared

fight, disappeared

sunsets blew away the fury of youth

just not yet, no time for that bottle of wine

on my deathbed now I lie

wondering why I would never quite

open that bottle of wine

laying seconds before my death

the hounds of hell speaketh

in wrath and growls

calling me to the grave

unashamed to be brave

and to be depraved

of one last sip

there wasn’t ever a time for that bottle of wine


Broken Mysteries

Oh, sinkhole.

What has life become?

Once, a flowery wisp of smoke caressing my lips while I slept in dreamy oblivion.

Awake and charred, broken and boldly breathing.

May this dawn bring a new recovery.

Another finished bottle of unhinged madness.

a broken colourful sandbox with crystals purple in green.

dissolve in my shrunken head.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

When everything’s broken. what can you find, yet again.

what can you find, yet again.

repetitive motion. actions and motives.

left right and center. while the collective conscious static ever-burning.

How many fires I daresay, should burn before I find fresh water anew.

it’s a broken mystery.