Poem-A-Day: Day 56

5 Drams

the air smelt of the oncoming onslaught
of my own true desire,
clouded in the jaded mess that makes
driving nigh impossible

under the bitter bliss of superfluous spirits;
a one-sided conversation
of ceremonious chitter-chatter clattering
words down like liquid

missiles whistling clean across the sky.
delirious, and championing
some fortitude not at all forthcoming,
but sadly off-putting.

a unique, chivalric confidence of inquisition
that violently dances
with some flippant, proprietary qualm
that can’t be squelched

by means of the maddening mosaic
painting something
other than me; it’s what’s intended
any more, but always less.