A mouthful of poetry

Hungover nights deteriorate further and spend their time

in the company of the mooching bruised purple sky

between the dog-eared books of poetry

dried flowers crackle with remembered fragrance

along the well worn out wooden floor

dreams crawl blindly on spidery legs

amidst all this I can clearly hear

the slow whirring of my mind

singing a sibilant soliloquy of solitude

a catharsis of chiffon emotions frees me

what the eyes don’t see, the soul reads

abrasion of brazen sensations

leave a trail on the bronze tips of fingers

I surrender to the whisky voice of poetry

smooth, smoky and strong

a mouthful, and I am drunk for life

floating on the rainbows of sublimity.