You're Just Old
So you cling to anything that doesn't remind you of the truth of a chapter's close or setting sun.
The comfort of another seemingly beats the truth of an empty bed's ever-present chill.
The drinks are for maintenance, like some old engine that awaits its certain [inevitable] demise.
The road doesn't seem endless anymore, and neither do the night's possibilities.
As wine ages, refined to allure only the snobs, never the delusional.
As for some, they linger for a taste of what most certainly will never be again.
As sentimental lines clutter the truth for all but the few brave enough to admit hope is but for the hopeless.
The glass is more than half empty, and your departure from the table is very much overdue.
Truth doesn't hurt much like a fall.
It's that sudden stop that most certainly kills us all.
Adios.
Chartreuse
You are the scent of a night's eternal promise and the taste of tomorrow's treason.
Enveloped within the coziness as your passions directed to a city's illumination.
Standing naked, viewing the world's ghost-cast streets in a vision, I cannot ever do justice.
In the laughter of the momentary bliss of an ever-escaping hope.
We cannot contain happiness, love the moments, not the conformity of an uncertain future.
Temptation is but a momentary hesitation in avoiding overindulgence, my dear.
And I have never restricted myself to pleasures forbidden.
Embrace more than your demons.
Enjoy on every level and leave the mess for another to clean.
If only those walls could speak what sordid tales they most certainly would tell.
Au revoir, my love.
Dragon Ships
Sailed upon mysterious waters, we must abandon the chains of fear to embrace life.
For death is a promise set upon the salt-cast winds that will find us no matter our efforts.
To thirst for an uncertain path, we must drink with a lust unbridled.
To take what is not given without a hit of remorse.
To love as equally as we hate. As long as there is passion, there is merit within our actions.
Foreign rocky shores, those faces we embrace in kindred spirits we must accept, and we also must be willing to leave behind.
History was not forged in the perfume of flowers more so the copper scent of blood to wash away with the tides forgotten as easily as the light extinguished at the hands of another.
We leave behind pains with freshly opened wounds as the sails embrace the winds, as we are left with our sorrows as the sun sets upon a dragon ship's mast as it views in mute witness and a storm's promised night.
Where truths are beyond God's or the gains in momentary treasures as we forge much like iron to become relics to be displayed without a true understanding.
History was never made in pages; it was penned in blood and brutality.
Lost in ships buried beneath the dark waters of the ocean floor.
Death finds us all, there's nowhere to hide.
Dragon ships sailed in beautiful perfection
Oblivious to all as so it should be.
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