The illusion is

The illusion is

I am talking to you,

Opening up

Spilling out

What lies inside

Growing stale

Corrupted

By disuse

What once was honey

Sweet as nectar

Is as foul as pig swill

Left too long

In the trough

Releasing the stench

Of hopelessness

Waiting for the truth

To emerge from the miasma.

For a moment

You are Ophelia

A maiden in repose

An impossible dream

I shed a tear in

A gloomy doorway

A telephone box

A post box

Fall through a broken gate

With a rusty hinge

The squeak is hostile

Forcing my hand

Why do I do it?

There is no answer

The blind rush

To vomit

Is repulsive

It all seemed good

The idea of celebration

In one less young.

I am at a loss

To explain it

In the bonding

There was promise in enterprise

I knew the outcome

Of too much alcohol

The stifling of creativity

The hubris

Of the drunk

I am of a mind

To pretend

I am sober

As I once was,

Find a way to

Resurface

Break the tension

Of lessons unlearned.

See the truth of things

From standing up

Before hell's gate

Opens wide

Its big black mouth

And like Jonah

I am swallowed

Whole.