There is a tremble in the pour,
a bravado that fits like armor.
We raise glasses high, a fragile defiance,
as if to trap the moment inside.
The burn dances down the throat,
a ghost pretending to be warmth.
It makes promises it cannot keep—
softened edges, lighter hearts,
a reconciliation with ourselves
that never truly arrives.
We laugh louder, chase the elusive spark,
our reflections blurred, yet stark.
What's false begins to feel like home,
a lullaby of denial, sweet and sour.
There is no clock in this room.
Time waltzes backward, then slumps forward.
And in its erratic rhythm, we forget
what the world outside even feels like.
Hands turn hollow against the glass,
but still, we press our palms to it,
aching for whatever shimmers
on the other side.
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: July 5th, 2026 09:22
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
Offline)
Comments2
Good write
Thank You Norman
Most welcome
Well Gray this poem could convey many meanings but the one that I took as I read it was returning to the past with a backward clock through pressing our hands against the glass becomes a fantasy in that we can not pass through that glass but our minds do and in fantasy we focus on what could have been. A lovely write
It's about the absolute insanity of the disease of alcoholism. Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different results. Thank You Soren
You are most welcome Gray That is insanity for sure
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