A Strange Epitaph

Drunk on the dark streets, lost in the night,

Where's your room, could it be in sight?

You stumble into a bar, seeking solace in the glass,

Ordering scotch and water, hoping time will pass.

 

But the bar is sloppy wet, soaking your sleeve,

The scotch is weak, a feeling of deceive.

Madame Death approaches, with a stench so foul,

Pressing her leg against you, her presence a scowl.

 

The bartender sneers, unsure of your intent,

As you order a vodka, the night feels bent.

Pouring it into your beer, an act of defiance,

Knowing your room is waiting, a place of reliance.

 

Leaving Madame Death and the bartender behind,

You remember where your room is, a haven in kind.

The full bottle of wine awaits on the dresser,

A dance of roaches, a sight of distress.

 

In the weird place, where love died with a laugh,

Perfection found in the chaos, a strange epitaph.

You sip the wine, feeling the warmth of the night,

In a world where madness and darkness take flight. ("A Strange Epitaph") by Courtney Weaver Jr.