the night bends like burnt steel
and we, the broken disciples of gin,
swallow prayers between cracked laughs,
chasing ghosts, chasing reasons, chasing nothing.
I’ve seen men curse the moon’s soft eye,
blame it for their shadow's stumble,
blame God for traps they set themselves,
their whiskey stink like their only hymn.
we wrote lists in our drunken fists
of desires too golden for any sky,
as if heaven owed us a free ride,
as if ruin wasn’t our chosen art.
God sat quiet, still as a streetlamp,
while calamity wore our faces down,
and we cursed the silence like fools,
waiting for miracles to burst on tap.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: October 22nd, 2025 11:31
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 18
Offline)
Comments3
A poem of strong words dark and gritty well done
The drink will break you, rich, poor, it doesn't care.
Easily accessible, daring that one last drink that makes you lie to yourself pretending you're in control.
I resonate with this, a real wake up call.
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