Seven stolen bracelets
Sit slung about my wrists
As I strain to recollect
The night’s unspoken thesis.
“We try to chase away the shadows, but
We’re chasing shadows of ourselves, and
Before the night is finished, we
Will have chased ourselves to hell.”
(day one hundred and fifty-six)
I’m stuck in a stupor. Stuck, struck dumb and immobile.
I know what I need to remedy the rut- but,
It’s not forthcoming, and I fail at pursuing.
Short and sweet.
Because the best things in life are the most short-lived.
Bittersweet when they leave, though.
[just the drunken ramblings of the briefly forlorn]