The Tempest

Was the tempest drunk on sixty proof
passion when the bottles sank, and moonshine
chivalry gave the place a rose-colored glass
to keep its eyes obsessed?

Was it all yeast induced dreams
on the breaths and poisoned cheers
to the glasses half anywhere?

I wonder because the night
feels burnt of memories:
those kept now in cellars where
the kegs wait years to be uncovered.

By then, the feel is fermented;
bubbled away into unassailable vapors
where clouds once drifted as oceans,
and spoke of the tempest that stormed
its way through the drunken hearts of sober minds.

And each time, hungover, in this dialect
of yearning and letting go,
I kiss the dawn away, and sleep
through a shot of bombastic heart-ache.

When the dusk arrives,
and the inorganic moonshine
gives way to the enchantment
of the real thing, I again look out
and hear the tempest
calling the heart to slumber—
drunk on something different.

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