Drinkers' Paradise

[Ex Tempore XXV]

My friend, we have lingered here for far too long,
Searching for answers at the bottom of a whisky glass.
We have drunk our lives and our hopes dry,
Under the glare of the insipid tavern light.
Our incessant course runs round and round,
Round the swirl of the liquor that flows into us.
And down we have gone, further down than
We have ever drowned ourselves before.
It is all null and dulled away: the pain
That sobriety deals unto us so amply.
Another drink, my friend, just one more;
And another till we find salvation, or oblivion.

M.M. — November MMXII

I consider the time...

I consider the time when you are lying awake in bed at night, waiting for sleep to take you away to oblivion, to be one occasion when you truly get to know who you are. For consider: there you are, alone with just the whirl of your thoughts and darkness to block out everything around you, to encase you within your overactive mind. It is here when you progress through all the significances of your life, those that constitute the current important events that either agitate or delight you. But what is of note is that there is nothing to cause (or enable) you to dismiss even your most troublesome thoughts. That is to say that even though you may be able to pack away the thoughts that you find distressing during the day, they have the mischievous habit of rising to the fore when your mind is free to churn, as it is when you lie contemplatively in bed before sleep. Sorely envied is the person who has but pleasant and agreeable musings when conversing with themselves during this time. I for one nightly engage in a tussle of reflection and slicing introspection that has no resolution at its end. But then, in my life I demand and actively pursue truth as much as possible. And truth, I can assure you, always awaits you patiently in the darkness.

Unlit Window

[Poem XXXI]

There is such envious joy in an unlit window.
The lights inside perhaps just recently switched off,
that had lit a scene of laughter and vivid colour.
And the warmth within cooling—but only for a time,
until they all return in joy, laughter and vivid colour.

**

There is such tragedy in an unlit window.
Silhouettes stand motionless and cold,
unmoved and unneeded for far too long.
They stare at themselves and at nothing,
and out to a world that goes by and goes on.

M.M. — Augustus, November MMXII