Spoken like a True Drunk

Amused by the words I gargled,

Intoxicated by the contradiction of my words,

I’m entangled by this wet drought of inception,

And the moment of madness that had me lost in her thoughts.

The warmth, the coldness, the intrigue of strange flares,

Lost in translation but without a doubt

An adventure to be assumed;

Not presumed, as I’d venture in my drunken world

To have her reach out for my hand

And entertain my illusions for one frame of time too long

To be noticed.

Scribbling a story of our own

It is told by the nature of silence,

Come to life by the disillusion of reality

And the wrinkles of napkins that are torn or lost

In the pockets of strangers among the dark.

Where are the drawings of my misconception?

Are they kept in hiding for all to wonder,

Or do they tremble under earth,

Unwinded, unvisited,

Disoriented by a degradable sun?

But I remain by my seat,

Alone with the breath of my madness,

To implore my thoughts a rest,

To quiet down the naughty of its desire;

Though it detests keeping calm

Under the origins of secrets that need to be claimed

And revealed by the dooms of truth.