The poet

I breathe in its presence 

in its mind, the air, 

everywhere

This meaningless longing that tears at my veins

and every droplet carries a separate name that

cries aloud for a spit of life

My bride is that search in wide this yearning  

brilliant cups of wine that cannot fill our suffering and

every marker of every whiskey mile only 

serves to serve itself

Cursing me in its unashamed abandon

As colors that color me blind

chain me down too willingly 

into my lifelong sentence

Reviews

[John Sullivan]

Nicely done. Especially the final lines. Real.

[Perdition]

Thanks for the read and review…Appreciated!!

[John Sullivan]

My pleasure, it's been a while. I hope all is well!

[Davidgeo]

Smoke weed everyday - snoop dogg

[Perdition]

"There was a time for such a thing" as this... now I smoke the air and spit the consciousness of a good red. Long live the wine glass!! Thanks, Davidego~

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I write..."a spit of life" lots of spits.
I wonder if writing is a curse more than a blessing.
Wine can't fill the suffering...does poetry do any better?
I wonder. I suppose we can look at writing poetry as a lifelong sentence...as we write sentences about life into poetic verse.
j.

[Davidgeo]

it's a curse

[Perdition]

A worthy one!

[Perdition]

Whatever it is J., don't ever take it away from my bones lest I drop. There will come someday when I will write the final line, and somehow it seems okay, but already miss it."Perdition", remember? A lifelong hell for a simple word forgotten. Thanks and good to be home~