Old Howls
You’ll hear me mutter it, over stale beer breaths, “Life’s a damn comedy,” the punchline? A grand cosmic joke, flesh mocking, a howl in the void, a fool too wise for his own good.
Maybe that’s just fine, Maybe that’s just how the cookie rots, murmurs drowned in bourbon, midnight road burdens, soliloquies to an empty mug.
Grace in the plummet, wild, and untamed, over the brink, and into the insane, off ledges, into the void’s cold smooch, sly grin, playful hiss, melodies from days of reckless rebirth.
Friends, old and new, doors flung wide to the shadows, everlasting contradiction, smart men call it superposition, some name it purgatory, a place to linger, to fade, I named it home, adorned with verses and ancient tongues
Memories drenched in old parks, dancing under the glare of street lamps, succumbing to the city’s roar, running until the heart’s blaze scorches, defiance snarled at agony, mocking its scorn.
there’s no shame in sticking to the same old game, like playing old worn tunes, beyond time’s heavy claim, poised for the end with a smug smile, triumphant in the hunt, mile after mile.
Laughing at the madness of the stars clutching with insatiable thirst, cherishing with boundless passion, the gods do love a good fool, a ritual of the ages, the oldest of rules.