Lovers accompany drunkards tonight.
Accumulate together in the Rite.
Vexed by the taste of whiskey and good beer,
I think my ears began to closely hear-
Singing? The holy muses are talking,
Haunting the night while my mind is fleeing.
Lapping over the senses, possession.
Offering to answer my cold question:
”Victory is having or letting go?”
Even in thoughtless stupor I must know.
Love did not pour from the last drop.
If it did would it cause of me to stop?
For sure, love is just an empty bottle:
Enjoyed yesterday, gone, here comes sorrow.
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