my grandfather sat by the fire,
hands greasy with years and gin.
his lips parted, slow as decay,
and the yawn spun into space,
wrapping itself into the room,
a lazy beast curling its tail.
each drunken breath hummed a hymn,
beer cans singing his baritone praise.
when he was sober, he'd thread
silence through his teeth instead.
but drunk, his mouth poured rivers,
sluggish oceans, swallowing the quiet.
he'd blink like a sluggish thief,
stealing time from the nighttime air.
his twirling yawns became legends,
an art lost to the sober world.
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: February 18th, 2026 09:54
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 25
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
Magnificent! A brilliant display of poetic prowess. So well written I felt not only that I knew the man but was sitting there. Nicely done Gray and a fave
Thanks Soren
You are most welcome Gray
a fine write , enjoyed the read
Thanks Norman
most welcome
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.