Deaths At Midnight’s Table

Hiatus of reverie’s reclamation
blows over the mind at midnight’s table
like a breeze with Nirvana scents.

If only it could truly summon evolution
end the madness inside,
but it couldn’t prevent
that angel at the bar
from turning into a whore
and the wings added to one’s nakedness
from not allowing you to fly.

So at midnight with lips around the top of bourbon bottle,
flashbacks of commissioned trip into a sexual paradise
never purged the mind of those portraits
of that unblemished pious mannequin
who you thought lived somewhere within.

Just twirling the single quill from that airy plume,
which truly was an illusion in the first place,
quietly accepting the truth,
there are no honest righteousness peddlers,
merely dreamers and those who try to pretend
every poison consumed from tainted wineries
is somehow blessed as a nectar
when served in a cup of immortality
manufactured by a blind man
with an expiration date on the bottom.