In my minds eye,
I see myself,
In the coming years,
Down on my luck,
In the brumal months,
Cloaked in a ragged greatcoat,

Among the dreary remains,
Of a night in a haze,
A melancholy stupor,
Initiated by the barman,
But not of his design,
A tap of liquid misery,

Will they find me in the gutter?
Slouched with my whisky friends,
Bottles of woe,
Among the scents of ethanol,
And spoils of spilled amber,
Spirits on the stones,

And when it comes to the grim autopsy,
Will the cause of death be phrenitis?
Or a broken heart?

Comments
  1. Zen Greenway says:

    Thank you for teaching me the words “brumal” and “phrenitis”.

  2. msjadeli says:

    Good poem with some fabulous lines. My favorite line: “bottles of woe.”

  3. I like your photo, and I want to say don’t end up in the gutter. Great poem. Thank you ❤️

  4. shauna says:

    I cry every time I hear of a former patient that was not successful in their battle. Whether it is the bottle, depression, cancer, whatever. Guess I am just a sensitive soul. This poem makes me ache.

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