Defeat

The midnight poets
Have all gone to bed
A glimmer of incense
Remains in my head

The death of the day
Still rings in my ears
And the burning salt water
Poisons my tears

A small, ashen wing
Now black from the tide
Wavers softly, and slowly
On it's serous death ride

I reach for the bottle
But it fades from my hand
An illusion of sanity
Never makes a true stand

So I hook up my dreams
To the old, broken oak
And I fall to the darkness
From which I awoke.