Posted by Atticus on September 2, 2006, at 9:21:31
She’s as lonely as floating ice
In a mostly drained tumbler
Of two fingers of Bushmills,
Slowly but inevitably
Losing her sense of self
As she dissolves
Into the diluting whiskey
That gnaws at her edges
Just like the rest
Of the world.
She’s a transitory thing,
Designed to fade
Like liquid memory’s
Quicksilver sculptures
Into something that cannot hold
Its own shape
For more than a few moments
After coming into contact
With the heat
Of her full lips.
And I’d ask her
What she’s drinking
And offer her another,
But in end
That just prolongs the process
Of decay
And of pain
And of unbecoming.
poster:Atticus
thread:682248
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20060722/msgs/682248.html