for the drunks, the try-hards and the pessimists.

for the drunks, the try-hards and the pessimists

unconnected

voices,

clamouring around a table

like well echoes,

people crying for help;

unheard.

all too soon,

it becomes a battleground

of cocktails,

and shouting.

i walk away, afternoon

tipping into evening.

as the masks begin to slip.

malice

and insecurity,

lingering at the bottom

of each emptied glass,

wrapped around

the worn out sliver of lemon.

a different day,

and i’ve stumbled

into a parliament of pessimists;

futility and spite

freshly buffed,

and worn as medals.

around the table,

reflections

of a future

i may not avoid,

if magic

doesn’t come riding in with the autumn.

i worry;

each event taking a piece of me.

reducing my belief

in the possibility,

of something more.