Strands of a rope, can untie,
thus, the strength of a cord can die,
then a smile, can indeed decay,
to make up a frustrating day,
where instead, of counting blessings,
I open the cabinet, full of dressings,
either it be whiskey, that numbs the mind,
or plasters, to cover a scene unkind,
then in a haze, I wander with the fumes,
delving deeper, into my lovesick blues,
where everything I hear, is a memento,
of a now lost, triumphant crescendo,
a minute’s long glance, feels like hours,
as my sorrow ignores, outdoor showers,
but then my mind, shouts at my feet,
“it’s time to get off this miserable street!”
I get back inside, to fix blurred vision,
remake that rope, with better decision,
to build the blocks, of much nicer plans,
comprised of much stronger strands,
of course, my pain won’t be forgotten,
for a full life lived, is both sweet and rotten,
but for now, I choose to shine, not burn,
for this is my cue, to make a return.