Wineglass, filled with loss,
partially drunk and left—
where, goddammit?
Like reading glasses,
lost in the forever fog of—
who cares, who really cares—
middle age!
Yet where, goddammit?
I only feel.
Taking long sips of liberation—
as mind floats
the liquid gold of—
another—
yes, why not, another—
misty gulp.
To toast—what?
Oh, yes—focused youth;
revered old age!
Vering on
promised purgatory,
drinking down culture—
I swallow words:
Aging like good wine!
You haven't changed a bit!
A princess!
Trembling now, at cosmic speed,
reaching for non-existent glasses, propped carefully upon my head,
groping through euphuism, I pour—
words!
Yet, where, goddammit, are they?
Lost in the forever fog of—
who really cares—
the feverish meaning of—
middle age!