Whisky bottle –
empty tummy,
arid bottom, broken neck.
Mood is fed.
And the world seems
warm and chummy,
lost regrets,
bitty less confounded dread.
Thoughts are bouncing –
each time’s harder,
under scalp –
smashed walls.
Clock absorbs the tides –
time stops fighting
mounting ardor,
visions disobey,
misery subsides.
Words are ground
to a powder –
whispers caught and drown
in the swirled squall.
Silence breeds –
no sound’s louder
than a grain of sand
in the dunes that crawl.
August 27, 2007
Iouri Lazirko
Copyright ©2007 Iouri Lazirko