and next to the typewriter sat a glass of whiskey…poured from a bottle of Paddy’s that you bought…drank of it…chased it down with water…stared into the golden liquid…thoughts of other times…
times when laughter lifted our souls…and love was made till wee hours of the morn…back when hair tossed on a pillow was kissed…and lips were wet…lips were wet…
booze went down smooth…sat and pondered what to write as rain fell…night sky black…a book of Beckett waiting to be read…purple hours…
thought occurred to me that this glass of Irish madness was being taken alone…all by myself without a soul in sight…was always told never to drink alone…by old friends…old friends…
where are they now…long passed…corpses rotting in graves…lives taken by their own hands…perhaps they were lonely too…weakend by the myriad of tears in life…troubles…toils…
not enough whiskey…not enough water…
