Unravelling and weaving, sometimes simultaneously

Bacchus

The wineskin is empty
and the rising sun
feels like needles
in my scrabbling brain

I reach for you
but it’s too late for that

you’re gone

as if you were never there

and maybe
my mind reasons
you weren’t
really

It’s been a long time
since I saw you
when I was sober

All I can see
scattered in listless piles
are the soused bodies
of the bacchanites

undoubtedly dreaming
of chaos
accomplished and hoped for

panting in their stupor
lips and hands
stained red

I am alone

as I always am

as I want to be

damn it

stumbling to piss behind a tree
bracing with both hands
my half closed eyes
follow the trail
between the gnarled roots

so old

My fingers dig into the bark
and the twisted vine
settled in my hair
falls over my brow

I snatch it off
tossing it away

the limp leaves make a sad arc
before settling in the trampled dirt

Who cares

I will make more wine
before the sun recedes

and those thralls that manage to wake
will swallow it down
until merriment once again
slips into madness

and I see you again.

bachmox

(c) RCGA 2014

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