Cynical yearnings, a near ill-gotten dream enervates
strongly with almonds in my goblet.
oh what sweet slumber shall soon come.
In each small sip I take, bitting back bitterness,
of temporal gestures and uneventful memories,
to have grown so old and yet fraught with
naught but regrets, the least of which lessens
with every small sip. My eyelids become burdens.
just maybe, maybe...
A bullet and a method of delivery,
is a simple efficacious manner,
devoid of grace and benefits, so I sip, I sip.
To hope to sleep, and in that sleep, of the dreams to come.
No comments:
Post a Comment